


Irreversible Parallelisms

by nonky



Category: The Middleman (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 13:25:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 40,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6612322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonky/pseuds/nonky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wendy didn't get her magic ride home. He didn't get his partner back. In another world, another Middleman gained a Dubbie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wendy didn't make it back to her own universe in The Palindrome Reversal. Obvious spoilers for that episode and some of the others. To be safe, until you've watched all twelve episodes, don't read this. Multi-part story, with ratings from Teen and Up to Explicit depending on the contents of the individual chapters. Originally posted on Livejournal a long time ago.

The geographical centre of the city  
The longest night of his life

The Middleman kept the beam running until the power ran out, and stood even longer staring up at the sky. The stars winked and smouldered out from the darkness, already burnt out wherever in the universe they were anchored. They faded as the sun rose low over his city, a bitter light on his red eyes.

He had believed Dubbie would make it back, despite the odds. He would give her no less respect than that – she had done everything she could to come back.

He flew out to speak to her mother, after a brief and painful meeting with Lacey, Tyler and Noser at the loft. It was only right to tell them she was dead. From the description of the world she had landed in, Wendy had shown considerable valour and skill to survive long enough to contact the other Middleman. Ida came up with the story he told, as she was packing up the personal effects from her locker.

Wendy Watson left on a business trip to Jordan, carrying contracts between two different companies on behalf of The Jolly Fats Wehawkin Employment Agency. For security reasons, she flew on a private charter plane, which crashed into the Atlantic Ocean. Everyone on board was lost.

It was a good enough story, and in their grief no one would question it, but The Middleman felt she deserved more. He hated lies, but he kept adding bits of them to the tale. She had never given in and recorded any code 47s. He read the shocked faces and devised small comforts.

The trip had been unexpected, otherwise she certainly would have said her farewells to her friends and family. She was upbeat and helpful before the flight left. She loved airplanes. She had taken her sketchpad to work on the plane. She told him he owed her a great lunch once she got back. She seemed to be enjoying her job.

He told her mother Wendy was wearing a skirt and blouse when she flew to Jordan, and the older woman smiled gratefully. She had taught her girl to dress well, she told him. She didn't know if she had shoes for the funeral and she wanted to look right.

The worst idea in his head now was that Wendy wasn't dead, but trapped and forever out of reach.

The Middleman took Ms. Watson to the mall and helped her shop, buying a black dress to wear to her lost daughter's memorial. He agreed it was perfectly okay to wear sandals if they were black and formal. He held her mother's hand in the airplane. He booked her hotel and showed up early to drive her to the service. He worked the clasp on her pearls. He held her up as she wept helplessly over the blown up image of a younger Dubbie on prom night.

Tyler, Lacey and Noser had brought some of her paintings to put on stands around the portrait. They each spoke a few words. Lacey, who had started crying when she saw him at the door alone before he said a word, cried throughout the day. Tyler was awkward in a tie he kept slipping through his fingers, his eyes deeply pained. Noser was stoic, but he seemed to cut his remarks short upon telling the mourners Wendy had always been able to guess the song he quoted, and throw the next line back. There were many other people from her college, and a few young Asian men he assumed were the surly ex-boyfriends. Sensei Ping sent a single lotus flower.

Ben showed up with a video camera, and The Middleman put a gargantuan amount of restraint into only decking him once. After Tyler and Noser had shown him out, it was last call for speakers. He caught Ms. Watson's pleading glance before she buried her eyes in her handkerchief. Wendy's mother was quite a lady, and she deserved to hear all the good he had seen in her daughter.

“Wendy Watson was rather impatient during her interview,” he began. “She and my receptionist have never been able to get past the personality clash they had from the first moment. But she was funny, witty, very quick. She never needed to have anything explained more than once, and she had boatloads of initiative. She could hold her own in any situation, no matter how odd, and it saved me on any number of occasions. I told her she could easily have my job some day, and she often set out to prove she could have my job that day by bossing me around.”

There was a wave of muted, genuine laughter and he smiled fondly.

“Whenever she criticized my methods she had good reasoning and I valued the fresh perspective. Her intellect would have served her well in any profession, and I'm honoured she chose to work for me. Art was her first calling, but it never interfered. In hindsight, I wish I could correct the times working for me interfered with her art and her friendships. Life is too short and hers was . . . “

The lies beat out from his chest like thunder, and he put his hand up to quell the guilt. She was gone to these people. She was gone to this world. This was more than most of his peers had received at their ends. Wendy had needed more recognition than his own silent brooding. This was for the best, even if it was a lie.

“We had too little time with Dubbie, and I will miss her for the rest of my life.”

He managed to step away from the podium before the tears came, hot and painful, dripping down his chin onto his jacket. The priest let him stare at the portrait for a long time before patting his arm and gesturing him down from the stage. Ms. Watson held his hand firmly and Lacey rubbed his back.

He was invited to the gathering after the memorial but only stayed a few minutes. There was still a villain on the loose and he felt Tyler's inquiring glances a few times. He supposed he had said more than a typical boss would, but it was pure. He would miss Dubbie forever, and always regret her loss. It was just passionate compared to Tyler's story about fixing her old car for her, and that much emotion might have taken away from her boyfriend's peace of mind. It was unintentional. Those people had each other to talk about her in the future, and he just had his thoughts.

After checking in with Lacey and Ms. Watson, The Middleman walked out of the loft. His empty hands trembled. He went to HQ, sat against her locker and held her jacket, remembering.

 

The geographical centre of the city  
The night she realized she was completely screwed

You took what comfort you could, Wendy thought. In whatever form it came, even asshole bikers with no capacity for understanding. If he lost his world he'd probably sit back with a beer bong and congratulate himself at being displaced. She wanted to fall down and sob.

The terse, rough pat on her back stopped and she flicked off the machine before it blew up in their faces. Lacey smiled and pointed behind them. Both Wendy and The Middleman turned abruptly, but it was just Noser coming to escort her friend back to the strip club. He'd been shot, but he would recover.

“Oh, Dub Dub, I'm sorry,” she said sympathetically. “You were always tougher than me, and I do okay. You'll be fine. A lot of the girls live at the loft if you want to crash there for tonight.”

Wendy accepted the hug her friend offered. She had been broke a lot but never literally penniless and homeless. It was nice Lacey was the forgiving person she cherished in her own universe. It was the source of her small amount of hope.

“I think . . . I'm going to go with The Middleman here and see if we can't figure out something else we can try,” she said apologetically.

He gave her a look that wasn't mean, but not friendly either. Lacey glared and Wendy tilted her chin up challengingly.

“You just pissed off the other me a whole lot. I don't know if you know my looks, but the one she was giving you last was enraged.”

He arched his uncovered eyebrow. “I'm familiar,” he smirked.

“You! Be nice to her! She's lost in an alternate universe,” Lacey scolded him. By her side, Noser gave a short nod.

The Middleman was packing up the futuristic metal thingy and shrugged. “I won't eat the cupcake. She's decent backup and I piss a lot of people off.”

He made it sound so threatening, but she was pretty sure it was some kind of admission of tolerance, so Wendy sent Lacey and Noser home. When she figured out some way to get a Fatboy ID she would visit, but there was a huge aching pressing on her temples. She needed a shower, food and sleep. Then she could wake up and process being stuck.

“Get the stand,” he griped.

Wendy picked it up and folded it under her arm, following him back to an abandoned parking lot. She was shocked for a moment when he put his elbow through a window, but hid it. He was The Middleman in a post-apocalyptic world, and he stole cars. It was only slightly weirder than space cockroaches.

She didn't speak until he let her into HQ and put the equipment away. The void in the middle of the room where the Middle hog used to be seemed to bother him. She didn't touch his arm like she would have done at home.

“There's a bunk room, and the locker room,” he told her. “Probably in the same places you left them. Uniforms in the lockers. Food in the kitchen. Don't trust Ida if she offers to cook, she's lousy at it. No tastebuds.”

Wendy was nearly bowled over by the semblance of a conversation. She nodded and he disappeared down the hallway. She looked down at her Evil Wendy costume and sighed. It was long past time to wash that off.

She found the locker room mostly the same, except it only had one large stall instead of two. Accommodating two people probably sent the wrong message to the one night stands, she thought snidely.

For whatever odd reason, that was the thing that made her cry, so she stripped down quickly and started the shower. He hadn't ripped the pipes out of the walls and pawned them, at least. When she threw down her pants an object clattered out. She leaned over and picked up the tennis bracelet, glinting at her with something that reminded her of home. 69 had proved all Middleman were not created equal, but her Middleman was a good man. She tucked the bracelet in a pocket and turned on the shower.

There was hot water, which she hadn't been sure to expect, and the tiles were very clean. Ida was unkind but she didn't let things get messy. Wendy stood under the spray and leaned her forearms over her head. With her face on the white tiles she could only see her own blurry reflection. She had taken a shower in this place only a day previously. Her world existed. She didn't exist in it, currently, but that was an issue she could work with.

The door opened behind her and she flinched. She looked back and frowned at The Middleman.

“Hot water doesn't last long,” he said. His voice was flat, but he did a scan up and down her body. “Leave some for me.”

He sat on a bench and started peeling the chaps off. Wendy washed her hair and ran soap over her skin as fast as she could. She trusted him, sort of, and she showered with her Middleman all the time. But her Middleman didn't look at her like that or call her cupcake. He didn't roll his hips just to make her look at his crotch.

“All yours,” she said, moving past him. He was down to his boxers and his eyepatch. He might not take the eyepatch off. She wrapped herself in a towel and grabbed her dirty clothes.

“We'll make plans tomorrow. You'll need a Fatboy ID and I had some contacts on the inside if they're still alive. I need some transportation to replace the Middle hog. If we're going to bust out the old man it's going to be a lot harder now. She moved him to a different location.”

She opened her mouth and snapped it shut again. He made a small hand gesture urging her on.

“How do we know she didn't kill him?”

“She's been taking a risk keeping him alive all this time. That hasn't changed. You can't prove what you saw and even if you could,” he replied. “People are broken. They'll stand up for themselves only when they feel safe. It's going to take a hell of a lot.”

She could drag herself around like she didn't belong or she could get up each morning and be the Middleman's apprentice. The basics were all there, if slightly different. She could take out her frustrations on Ida's tanorexia.

“We'll figure it out, Boss,” she said, holding his gaze. He blinked, surprised, she thought. He didn't disagree. She threw on a Jolly Fats t-shirt and went to bed before she pushed her luck too far.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy didn't get her magic ride home. He didn't get his partner back. In another world, another Middleman gained a Dubbie.

The universe where she had become indispensable  
One week later

 

The Middleman sat, emotionless, as Ida tore into him about the risks he was taking. He had gone into an underground tunnel system to look for a rumoured group of cannibalistic mutated humans. Alone, without telling her or doing even a few minutes of research.

“-trying to get yourself barbecued just because she's not here! I'm here! If you don't want to hire anyone new you can give me a gun and I'll be your backup,” she yelled. “I'll tell you something else. You didn't get your little princess sucked into an alternate reality! You were knocked out and she took charge of the mission! She did what a Middleman does!”

It was fortunate the android's systems ran on a bit of oxygen or she could have gone on indefinitely. He stood up when she paused, and pulled down his jacket. He didn't take it off when he got back from a mission anymore. He didn't roll up his sleeves and relax. There was no joy in bouncing ideas around when no one's boots were scuffing his desk. He had never minded Dubbie ignoring him. He had been sure she was listening to every word for some contribution she could make.

“I don't feel there was anything wrong with my actions, Ida,” he said stiffly. “I heard of a threat to the populace and took steps. That is the job.”

She crossed her arms and her bracelets clinked together. “Yeah? I thought the job was to stay alive more than one mission, and train your replacement. You won't hire anyone and you ride around like you're not full of vampire's fruit punch just waiting to spring a leak.”

He grabbed some rags and took apart the Middle gun, lining the pieces up precisely. Ida growled and yanked his chair back, standing over him threateningly.

“It's clean. It's been clean the last ten times I saw you clean it. You probably hid away and cleaned it a few more times than that. I know what you're doing.”

“I'm maintaining my weapon, Ida,” he said lightly. He kept his breathing normal, held back the anger and looked at her meekly. He was just The Middleman.

She turned away and went to the filing cabinet. When she came back it was to drop a thick packet of papers in his lap. Her bright earrings slapped her cheeks as she flounced over to her desk.

“I've seen a lot of Middlemen, and I have your psych profile memorized. You clean your gun compulsively when you want to use it. There are no threats here, shooting me won't do any good. You already decapitated two interrodroids. You clean that gun when you want to put it to your own head. I'm trying to tell you what you don't see right now.”

He stood up and let the papers fall. “You dropped something, Ida.”

The Middleman reassembled his weapon, hands moving quickly and angrily. He slapped the clip in with his palm. She waited until he was finished to snatch it from him.

“You're not listening! I'm trying to introduce some rational thought in a time when I know you don't feel things make sense. It doesn't make sense that she's dead. You had to tell everyone else she is, but it doesn't make sense to you.”

He ground his fists into the desk. “Talking about it doesn't help me.”

He gave up on peace and quiet and turned to leave the room. Ida grabbed him by the ear and held painfully.

“You don't know she's dead, dunce cap. If there's anyone who could survive there, other than you, wouldn't it be your apprentice? Didn't she get to the other Middleman for help? Didn't she contact the Palindrome's evil twin?”

He wouldn't say it, not when he'd been working so hard to shut down desperate planning to rescue her. He had one world to save and he couldn't betray the standards of The Middleman by neglecting it.

“If you said it just once you might feel better,” she gritted out, nearly pulling his ear off.

His temper shattered, and he rammed his shoulder into her midsection, hurtling them both to the floor. Ida tried a choke hold and he rolled clear, rising to his knees.

“She's alive there and I can't do anything for her!”

Ida brushed herself off, shook out her skirt and rose gracefully for her bulk and titanium chassis. She sat down behind her desk and took out her game board as if something had been accomplished.

“Eight days ago you didn't know there existed, Boss,” she said happily. “Time changes everything – you know that.”

Hope burned implacably in his heart as The Middleman left the room.

 

The universe where she was out of place  
One week later

Wendy had a lot of time to herself while she waited for her ID card. The Middleman said he knew a guy who knew a guy, and she briefly considered the possibility she was dreaming a mash-up of Escape from LA and a bad gangster movie. It became less likely every moment she found herself cleaning up stockpiles of liquor bottles and girlie magazines without waking up screaming. He went out in the early afternoon on business, and sauntered in after midnight semi-drunk.

I'm an action movie housewife, she thought. I'm spending my time fretting over dust on the plasma canon.

She and Ida gutted most of the biker crap and packed it into one room. The robot wasn't bad for conversation, but the information Wendy learned about her new universe wasn't good. On top of her evil self seizing the country, there was always the risk of rioting and famine. The aerosol soup kept people alive but it was both disgusting and weak nutritionally. Most of the population was barely hanging on. There was no political structure beyond the Fatboy infrastructure.

In a backward kind of inspiration, capitalism was doing fine. In addition to the free market – that is the one Fatboy ran – there was also the black market and the grey market. Reselling your Fatboy approved merchandise to another citizen was grey market, and the black market was a four block stretch of bombed out malls filled with criminals selling stolen goods.

Did she mention everyone knew The Middleman there?

He led the way through the crowds jostling each other, glaring at people who might have brushed his arm if they hadn't ducked to the side. Wendy took position on his blind side, even though the long sweeping glares he threw to everyone pretty much covered his loss of vision. She shivered in the Eisenhower jacket. There was no heat in the city. The stinking crush of bodies was the only thing keeping the building from being a frozen ruin.

The Middleman stopped at a table, his body pivoting back to see she was still there. He wasn't such a bad guy. Despite her initial impression, he protected HQ, Ida, and her. There was no affectionate humour underlying his expression. He didn't do pep talks. He barely spoke. Things were different.

The man behind the table smiled in a way that made her think of a frightened animal. His Hawaiian shirt set off a thought that she didn't know the boundaries of the United States of Fatboy. She should look that up. The vendor had a gun tucked in his waistband. He put his hand out and The Middleman didn't reciprocate.

“The girl for sale? She's a pretty one – healthy.”

She so did not want to know what he meant by that.

“I don't deal in people. The girl is mine. I'd be very upset if anything happened to her. Maybe you could keep an eye out and make sure that doesn't become a problem,” The Middleman glowered.

Then his hand touched the back of her jacket rather gently and nudged her forward. “Dubbie, this is Rick. He's scum, but he knows messing with me means a quick and ugly turn of his business. Tell him what you need.”

Earlier she might have argued she wasn't his. She didn't have all the details when she arrived. Belonging to a disgraced Middleman was one of the few ways to get anything done without paying with your body and dignity. In a post-apocalyptic world, rape was a hobby everyone could afford. Mutual respect had gone the way of the dodo.

She parted ways with Tyler's bracelet one link at a time. Four links bought a Fatboy card. The remaining diamonds bought an old black car she thought looked a little like a Middle mobile. It brought them back to HQ before coughing and dying.

They ran a few shady jobs and made another trip to the black market, which she was still getting used to as a place instead of a concept. There was also a highway overpass known as Gun Point, for obvious reasons if you were foolish enough to go there. She couldn't make this stuff up. She really wished she was making it up.

Rick sold the car parts they needed. She might have impressed The Middleman by knowing a carburetor from her ass. Or maybe he just wanted an opening to talk about her ass. It was hard to tell with him.

They took down a toxic waste monster and two days later The Middleman's bank account had some money in it. Apparently O2STK was out there and paying attention. Guns and technology started arriving. He started wearing his uniform again.

Her Middleman looked better in it.

 

The universe where he had failed her once again  
Two months later

He had found a way and for exactly twenty minutes he believed it would work. Ida's idle look at the board made her wrinkle her nose and change a calculation slightly, then erase the solution. He checked the equation and found she was right. Instead of having a window to get Wendy in a few months, it was suddenly another 100 years.

He fasted for clarity, until Ida intervened with chocolate milk. He meditated. He dreamed strange methods of being reunited with Dubbie but woke up to find them already lost from his mind. He swallowed every bad idea along the way and told himself the one good one was somewhere, just like she was.

 

The universe where she shared a shower with a guy who looked like a pirate  
Two months later

It was just fucked up. Fucked. Up. FUCKED UP.

Some days Wendy carried herself with an air of self-assured acceptance. She was lost, but she knew where she was. Her childish self had always considered that more important than anyone else knowing, to her mother's chagrin. She had food, shelter and company of sorts. She had friends, even if she did have to go to a strip club to see them. She was not content, but there were moments of happiness and fun. There were giddy seconds when her life depended on a Middleman she trusted. There were triumphs she smiled over.

Other days she was enraged by everything that was not quite her own. The world was a mess, ruled by her doppleganger with an iron fist. She had slop cooked on a hot plate by a robot who didn't understand why too much salt was unpleasant. She had a best friend copy who danced naked for men to grope her, and a non-musical Noser who knifed guys for getting too fresh with the strippers occupying the loft that should have been her home. She had a half-drunk, eyepatch wearing biker who leaped into danger and took her with him. She had a mission that seemed too large for an army of Middlemen, even if they were her Middleman.

She was tired of towels on the floor, hair in the sink and pornography DVDs left in the computer. She was tired of listening to him stumble around clanking wrenches when he was too wasted to work on his bike. She was tired of the look on his face when she said something that made sense. It was like he'd forgotten women could be fully clothed and relevant.

Most of all, she was tired of him barging into her shower and staring at her breasts. He didn't try anything physically inappropriate, just stared as he ran soap over his body. How the hell did she even say anything about that?

Hey, Boss, would you mind only leering at me when I'm dressed? Hey, Boss, if you're going to polish your penis in front of me could you not moan pleasurably? Hey, Boss, could you satisfy my curiosity about what you do with your erection once I leave the shower?

She had nearly given up on her own thoughts circling and asked Lacey if what they were doing was foreplay. Typically she didn't shower with anyone, but the locker room at HQ in her own world was adequate and The Middleman had made it asexual. He took off his clothes, she took off her clothes. A few times when they were injured they helped each other disrobe. It didn't mean anything. It was soapy and wet, steam hid a lot of stuff, and they washed.

When she took showers now she expected The Middleman to be there. It was a shock in the first moment to see the covered eye and tattoos. It was a shock to see the hard-on. Then it became normal-ish. So she was uncomfortably comfortable showering with a man she didn't know, who might be using her body as a masturbatory aid.

Her own Lacey would have squealed up and down every street in the city to hear it, Wendy mused. The alternate Lacey would have been less enthusiastic, but her advice would have been as slutty as her counterpart's.

It was a damned if you do situation. It would have to be her fault. She had seen The Middleman interact with women and he only ever made a move when he was invited to do so. It would be a great ride and he was enough like her Middleman that she trusted him not to do anything hurtful. Unfortunately he was also her boss. If she squinted he could be the shining beacon of hokey heroism she missed terribly.

So she couldn't have sex with him. Not having sex with him felt like being damned, too, and she ignored that part of the logic. No sex with your boss. It was a good rule to have and heed.

The shower beat down on her head and she leaned under the spray. A tricky fence had strained her arms and her back. Wendy spread her legs, arched her back and leaned her face on the wall. Her palms slid up the tiles and she stretched out.

“Ahh,” she sighed.

“The fence take a bite out of ya?”

So much for relaxation, she thought. Her body stayed roughly where it was, but she gave in to vanity and pulled her ass in. The Middleman opened the door and stepped behind her. His fingertips brushed over her lower back with a greasy feel.

“You have to disinfect every little cut,” he said. “Who knows what shit they lace the razor wire with. Anywhere else?”

Her wrist had a mark but she wasn't sure how old it was. She took her arm down and he rubbed some of the gel on it. His other hand pushed her wet hair off her neck and ran knuckles down her sides. When he didn't find anything he leaned on the wall next to her. He found another little mark on her calf and bent down to swipe it with gel.

Wendy caught her hips rocking forward, and reminded herself who she was and who he wasn't. The Middleman stood up and squinted at her.

“You pull something,” he asked shortly.

“My back. It's fine. Ida scanned me and called me a meat sack, so . . . “

The left corner of his mouth tipped up. “Soak it.”

He left the shower and she cursed under her breath. The hot water sluicing down her spine couldn't do anything for the tingling between her legs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy didn't get her magic ride home. He didn't get his partner back. In another world, another Middleman gained a Dubbie.

The universe without Dubbie  
Two and a half months later

The Middleman had agreed to look at applicants for his apprentice. Ida made some calls and ran the tests, haranguing the unlucky subjects worse than ever before. She even invented a new 'foul odors' tolerance test, which was just mean spirited. It also seemed to earn Jolly Fats something of a reputation for cruelty when several prospective employees fainted and were taken away by ambulance.

He missed Wendy, too, but there had been a few close calls. Another uniformed Middleman was needed before he was killed. Ingrained duty pushed him past the painful notion of another person wearing the green Eisenhower jacket, and holding her customized skull decal equipment. It would be a disservice to her – not her memory, he thought stubbornly – if he endangered himself in some tribute.

He had found a timetable that balanced his current work with his hopes. During his off time, he spent at least ten hours a week scouring the archives for alternate universe technology. He read everything there was to know and set out to debunk the myths. From The Palindrome he had learned communication was possible between two universes, even when a way to move from one to the other wasn't open.

There were a few phenomena that could effect space-time in a way causing rifts. Tears in reality happened by themselves and were sometimes closed by Middlemen. Other rifts closed in their own time, too small to sustain themselves. So he needed a big, stable rift, specifically linking the alternate universe she had been transported to with his own. Unsurprisingly, no Middleman had even set out to create one, so the information picked up from the time a rift was discovered.

The Palindrome was on probationary house arrest, rebuilding his device. Synchronizing its use was a difficulty, but there had to be some kind of punishment for what he had unwittingly done. Once his project for The Middleman was finished, Avi was going to set up the dollmaker's green manufacturing department. The larger companies would recover the thefts more easily, but that toy company was suffering financially.

Things would be made right again, by gum, as long as he was around to make it happen.

 

The universe with Dubbie  
Two and a half months later

Wendy decided to track down some art supplies and try to purge whatever sadness she was feeling. Distraction was a luxury in Fatboy's world. She went to the black market by herself. It sun was rising and she had enough money for the basics. Ida told her to be back in two hours or she'd send out The Middleman without his coffee, and everyone would be sorry.

It resembled a nice sentiment, so Wendy didn't bitch much.

She headed down the centre of the market's rough grid of tables, glancing sharply right and left as she moved. Her hand stayed on her gun, and she was displaying all the Middle gear prominently. People sidled out of her path almost like she had her usual escort. Rick gave her a helpful smile and directed her to the table she'd find paints.

“Hey, I have some nice jewelry,” he said hopefully, dangling a strand of pearls. “Very nice. Flawless. Tell your guy I'm working out a fuel thing, too.”

She was getting used to staring down everyone she met. “My guy?”

He put the necklace down and wrinkled his nose, his smile turning falsely bright. “I mean . . . uh, you come here with him, I figured . . . “

“I'm his. He's not mine. I'll tell him. About the fuel,” she said blandly. “Who am I looking for?”

“Thanks, yeah, thanks for that. Sorry about everything. You're looking for Pierre.”

She ignored vendors holding up merchandise, seeing everything they offered in a shade of red. The things they sold were stolen or pawned by people in desperate straits. They were selling off the possessions that symbolized meaning in living. People likely died for some of these things, trying to hold on to an identity they'd lost. She was beginning to think The Middleman was actually cheerful for his surroundings.

Pierre had a decent selection of oil paints, and she ran her fingers over the tubes. Burnt sienna, chromium blue and red, chock full of lead and pigments. She wondered whose apartment had been looted for the well-used easel, and which warehouse emptied to find a case of assorted brushes.

She bought everything except a number two brush, because he didn't have one. Wendy carried her bag of paints under one arm and held her can of turpentine. She left her gun hand free. Back at HQ she took a spare brush, pried out the bristles, then cut an inch of her hair. She trimmed it into a thin sliver and used pliers to fit it into the handle. The hair would nearly dissolve with paint on it, but she could grow replacement bristles.

She started out with an idea of painting her new world, but her first sketch was her Middleman, standing proudly and neat in his uniform. She gave him a smile. Even after she painted it she wasn't sure it was right. He looked exactly as she remembered but somehow unfamiliar. Even while she was looking at his face she felt like she was forgetting.

 

The universe where she had been lost  
Three months later

Ms. Watson was finally ready to move Wendy's things out of the loft, and Lacey had a new roommate moving in, so The Middleman went over to help. He arrived early with frozen yoghurt, and the blond pulled open the door with a wild hug. She clamped her arms around his chest and held on as he patted her back.

He felt himself smile as he got used to a petite female body in his his arms. He shouldn't have stayed away for so long. Wendy wouldn't hold him to any promises that kept him or Lacey lonely.

 

The universe where she was found  
Three months later

Wendy was getting ready for bed when the lights went out. She heard Ida yell something and a few crashes as her boss ran from one room to another. The door flew open and he barked at her. “Hey cupcake, get over here!”

Water was rushing along the hallways and she heard a few snap-crackle-pop electrical charges. He grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her up to hold on to his shoulders. Her t-shirt, the only thing she was wearing, bunched up embarrassingly. He carried her to the main office and set her down on the table. Ida was standing on top of her desk, glaring.

“Fatboy water crews,” she muttered.

“Water crews?!”

“They divert city water to industrial parks overnight, but they screw it up and cause flooding. This time they must have tripped our generator as well,” the android said. “Stay where you are until the water stops. I don't know if there's still some power running.”

The Middleman went away for a few minutes, his heavy boots presumably rubber-soled. He returned and climbed onto the table with her, carrying a bottle and two glasses.

“Stupid fucks are going to be pumping for another two hours. We'll be flooded at least another hour after that,” he reported. “Make yourself comfortable, Dubbie. Have a drink.”

He sat cross-legged next to her, and she pulled her t-shirt down to curl her legs away from him. He poured scotch into the glasses and downed his immediately. Wendy sipped cautiously. It was not a weak drink.

“Thanks,” she wheezed, and covered her face. “Oh, I might be blind, maybe.”

“Aw, it's just dark in here. So, you painted me?”

She put the glass down. “I didn't paint you.”

His snicker wasn't a nice sound. “I don't care, but you should know I'm not that guy. Clean jaw, polished shoes, parade rest grin,” The Middleman said softly. “That guy has no place in this world.”

She had taken a tiny room in the top floor as her studio, believing he didn't use it. They had internal surveillance but she hadn't imagined The Middleman was remotely curious how she spent her time. He trusted her well enough to know she wasn't stealing. She always showed up for a mission. And he had no right to ask her about her personal stuff.

“I didn't paint you. That's my Middleman,” she said sharply. “He's definitely not you.”

His second drink went down as quickly as his first. Across the room, Ida was playing solitaire, but she was listening. Wendy crossed her arms and hoped the Fatboy water crew drowned themselves for putting her through this.

“I figured you were sleeping with him. Didn't figure he was me.”

“He's not. And I wasn't sleeping with him. Tyler was – is my boyfriend. Was.”

The big man sitting beside her stiffened, his cool lean on the wall easing to a perfectly straight spine. Ida flipped a card over, glanced toward him, and asked, “Tyler Ford?”

Wendy sighed and tossed back her drink. It burned most of the inside of her head.

“Tyler was supposed to interview with The Middleman but he didn't get the message. I didn't realize until I met him a few weeks later. He was – is, he is a musician. He's a musician there, and he works for Fatboy,” she paused. “But Fatboy isn't evil, I don't think.”

She knew her world was in good hands, but she worried about The Middleman. He was a really great person and he tried to be positive toward other people. He was isolated from people because he didn't have the time for a social life. He was lonely.

“Strange coincidence,” The Middleman said, pouring refills for both of them.

This Middleman was lonely, too. There was a reason for all the solitary drinking.

“I guess so. There's an Ida, but she doesn't tan. She plays mah jong and makes origami. Lacey is-was my roommate, and not a stripper. She did confrontational spoken word art. Noser was our neighbour and a musician. I was a pacifist, and I certainly didn't have world domination on my mind.”

They sipped their drinks at the same time, and he observed dryly, “That's fucked up.”

“Yeah, it is. I'm having trouble keeping it sorted out. I'm guessing everyone thinks I'm dead, except for The Middleman. He's a crazy optimist,” she smiled.

Water lapped peacefully around the furniture and she took a moment to absorb the weirdness of her life. She had told The Middleman about Wendy Watson, the corporate bitch goddess, and how she had killed his apprentice. That debt would come due eventually, even if Fatboy wasn't toppled. From the brief and confusing words of Manservant Neville he might be a good guy to have in charge.

“And I'm a crazy pessimist. That's balanced,” The Middleman drawled.

“Yeah. I'm sure they're safe and everything, but since I haven't seen them it feels like they're the ones who went away. I keep using the past tense. I think I have some kind of new and exciting trapped-in-an-evil-universe identity crisis.”

He leaned back again, relaxed. “It's probably better for them to have something they can accept about where you went,” he said.

If he was going to get all compassionate she was going to risk the water. “Let's talk about something else.”

He shrugged, and one big tattooed shoulder brushed her arm. “Ida will turn her back so we can have sex.”

He was not larger than her Middleman, though his vests made him look that way. He flaunted what her Middleman kept hidden. It wasn't a world to risk being underestimated. She slapped his bicep anyway, reading his mood as drunk cheek.

“Pig! Gah, you are so lucky I don't remember The Whore's Lament. It was Lacey's best piece on feminism,” she threatened. “Four hours of feminine empowerment, and not a nipple in sight.”

He put an arm over her shoulders, sly like he had room for his moves on the tabletop. “Fine. You can at least tell me the truth. I'm bigger, aren't I?”

Wendy rolled her eyes. His peripheral vision was excellent and she had been looking, so it might be a fair question. Not that she would admit to the looking, let alone the seeing. She pushed his arm away and he took it down.

“All things being equal, physically you're almost identical. He doesn't have tattoos.”

“He should get some. They're chick bait.”

She was laughing a long time before she realized he had cheered her up in his own pervy, liquored up way.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy didn't get her magic ride home. He didn't get his partner back. In another world, another Middleman gained a Dubbie.

The universe with blue skies  
Three months later

Lacey rubbed his arms as if testing the reality of him at her door, then pulled him toward the sofa. She smiled up at him with the hopeful cheer he remembered. He hadn't seen her since the memorial service.

“What happened to keeping in touch,” she asked teasingly. “You cowboys just say anything to get out of calling, don't you?”

The Middleman sat down, uneasy as he tried to phrase his answer. Lacey was a wonderful person, and Mr. Noser as well, but he had tried to make himself busy. When he found the job stress amplified almost to the breaking point he had allowed himself to slide into depression. Once he found his purpose again he had needed more time than ever. In between all those adjustment periods he hadn't found time to socialize.

“I'm sorry, Lacey. Work has been very busy. I can't bring myself to hire anyone yet, and things still need to be seen to,” he told her gently. “I haven't been feeling that well.”

She patted his hand and left it on top of his fingers. “That's why you call your friends. None of this is easy. I made Noser live here for a month. I think he has a curve in his spine now from sleeping on the sofa, but he did it because I asked. Just ask.”

He smiled bashfully, recognizing his own warm feelings for the gentle flirtation in her manner. He really did love Lacey in a light-hearted kind of way. He wasn't sure it meant a life-long match. She was sweet and accepting. Being near her made him feel like he had months ago, normal and in control.

The world needed him feeling in control. Wherever she was, Dubbie needed him in control of himself.

“Something to drink would be nice,” he said.

She hopped up eagerly. “White or red?”

 

The universe with grey skies  
Three months later

The floor was almost dry by the time Wendy slid to the edge of the table and peered down.

“That was six hours,” she complained to The Middleman, who sneered around his glass.

“I'd go kill the water crew but they'd just send other guys tomorrow,” he told her.

His vest was off and he was dangling half over the table with his ankles crossed over the tall back of a chair. Ida was filing her nails with the precision of Michealangelo and the speed of a belt sander. The water kept them penned in long enough for her to get tipsy and sober up. Since he hadn't stopped drinking, The Middleman was still drunk.

“I'd settle for you grabbing me a pair of shoes so I can go to bed,” Wendy told him. “I don't walk barefoot on these floors.”

“Hey! The floors are clean,” Ida said sharply. “I'll get them mopped up in the morning.”

Sitting up lazily, The Middleman scooped up his apprentice and grinned at Ida. “Don't fight over me, ladies. There's more than enough for all.”

She squirmed in his lap and he gave a happy little growl. The t-shirt wasn't doing a lot to keep her off his crotch. If she didn't already know he dressed to the right she'd know it from that.

“Excuse me! I don't recall offering a lapdance,” she snarled at his stubble. Even on his lap she wasn't quite eye level with him.

He put his arm under her knees and pushed off the table. He wasn't very drunk because he didn't wobble or struggle with her weight. His hands balanced her to his chest and Wendy decided to hang there peacefully. She had been thinking he was trustworthy just a few hours earlier, and if she couldn't believe her own instincts she was more dependent on him than ever.

“Easy, girl. I don't feel like fetching your shoes for you. I'll put you in bed and get the power back on,” he told her, his tone joking in the subtle way she'd learned was genuine humour. “Be a shame if some gang stole you and made you do unspeakable obscenities while the security system was down.”

His hand under her knees turned at the wrist and he plucked at her t-shirt.

“Stop being creepy for no reason, Boss.”

He stepped sideways into the bunk room, knelt down next to the bed, and set her on the mattress. He even pulled the blankets up to cover her alarmed nipples. Wendy felt her eyebrows dancing around wildly.

“Did you just tuck me in?!”

“I'm a nice guy, Dubbie,” he said, leaning closer to the bed and ducking his head under the top bunk. “Do you want me to tell you a story, too? It's about a guy who enjoys licking the frosting off cupcakes.”

She wrinkled her nose and made a face, thanking the universe he had distracted her from how easy it would be run her hand to the edge of the bed and right along his leg.

“GOODNIGHT!”

He chuckled, tapped her leg softly, and stood up. She heard the flick of the light switch as he reached the door, turning the lights off so they didn't wake her when the power came on.

 

The universe where life moved slowly on  
Three months and one day later

The Middleman woke up with a slight headache and an uncomfortably vivid memory of plunging his tongue into Lacey's mouth, only to have her push him gently away. They had been drinking, and she wasn't upset, but he was. It felt like a betrayal of his promise to Wendy, no matter what he'd told himself before. The theory that Wendy would want his happiness was almost definite, but acting on it make him feel lonelier.

He would have to apologize to Lacey and make sure he didn't put himself in the way of temptation again. She and Dubbie both deserved better than him making her friend a stand-in.

 

The universe where life moved too fast  
Three months and one day later

Wendy had sometimes been that girl, the one who fell into a relationship with the most convenient guy she knew. In between her string of art school guys, she had made out with her fellow servers. She and several waiters had been caught in various groping locations known mainly to the other lowly wait staff. Unsurprisingly, they were fired and the second they didn't run into each other at work she forgot about them.

When she was working part time during school it hadn't mattered too much. She never cheated on anyone, and as far as she knew she never helped anyone cheat. When she graduated she found temp work didn't have the same opportunities to find the hidden nooks for making out. Then she became The Middleman's apprentice and he became the most convenient guy in her life.

The boring jobs that didn't matter to her would have shoved her into his arms in three or four weeks, except he would have politely sat her down and scolded her like a puppy who tried to hump his leg. He wasn't the type to engage in anything without probably ending up engaged. It was a positive quality but not one she was looking for.

Her current boss didn't have the urge for white picket fences. He was a horndog. She could have sex with him and ten minutes later he'd be up and showering for a date. The main reason she would never have acted on an attraction to her Middleman was the fear of hurting him. That wasn't an issue, and she was in a different world. Her Middleman would never know. The Middleman would roll with it, better than she would.

For the first time, Wendy was worried about getting her own feelings wrapped up in a man she couldn't have. She wasn't sure if it was one Middleman or the other causing the dread, but it was a valid concern. Her training kept her mind on the job because she was no less terrified of getting her new Middleman killed than her own. When she got back to HQ and should have been able to relax, there was only tension.

It amazed her that in a world with so many problems there were still plots to destroy it or take it over. It was similarly amazing The Middleman usually averted such plots by cracking skulls. She was getting more violent and faster to understand his methods. She was falling into his rhythm, if not for him.

You want to do it with the Mad Max version of Sexy Bossman, she thought sullenly. You didn't jump him when he was caring and sane, but given a crazy guy who looks like him you're right on it. That makes you nuts. Of course you knew that the minute you took a job with a guy who framed you for arson and threatened your life.

Wendy finished her workout and grabbed her water bottle. She left the dojo, ignoring the dents in the walls from The Middleman's workouts. She didn't want to know what he did to keep limber for the skull cracking.

The locker room was silent and spotless. The white walls soothed her eyes. She stripped down and grabbed a towel from the shelves. She loved those shelves. They were exactly the same as the ones in her own universe, humbly reminding her a better place existed.

The shower started too hot. It would cool down soon enough. Wendy stood directly under the spray but it was too hot on her face. She leaned forward and put her face on the tiles. She was physically tired, but her body didn't believe it. She associated showers with showering with her boss, and had a feeling the workout and the shower were just a slutty little plan she'd hatched.

You don't even know who you want, she thought. Narrowing it down to two men is not the same as a decision, even if they're the same guy twice.

“Hey Dubbie.” The Middleman stepped up behind her and she jumped. He stood still and showed his empty hands. “It's just me.”

He said that like it was entirely expected to shower with your boss, and she sighed, “Sorry. I didn't hear you.”

His eyes slid up her legs and back down again, lingered on her ass, took in her stiff back and her arms. He looked past her to the wall, and she realized he could make eye contact with her reflection.

“You look weird,” he told her gallantly, and she rolled her eyes.

“Thanks.”

Wendy tilted her head back and wet her hair. She was unusually self-conscious after months of dealing with him. She poured out some shampoo and worked it clumsily through her tangles. He was watching her. She didn't want to see the expression on his face.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

She ducked out of the way so he could get under the shower head. “No.”

The Middleman stepped back and started washing, his arms moving with impressive flexing. She turned her back and rinsed her hair. It was going to be horrific but she didn't care as long as she got out of there without doing something stupid. She grabbed her shower gel and immediately dropped it. Her shower buddy picked it up. He put it on the shelf.

“Did something happen,” he asked sympathetically.

“Never mind,” Wendy mumbled.

She knocked her forehead on the tile and put her arms on the wall. Staring down at her toes near the drain made her eyes unfocus. The water rolled down her back soothingly, and she appreciated The Middleman's silence. He put the soap back and she looked out the corner of her eye at the movement. Her breasts were moving up and down with her fast breaths. She didn't want to turn around, but she could see his arm in her reflection. It was easing slowly around her waist, palm flat as he touched her lightly.

His fingers splayed out, stroking. Wendy picked her head up and his face brushed the back of her neck. His free hand came around her other side to cup her breast. The Middleman's hands kneaded carefully, igniting a nervous tingling in her stomach. He met her eyes and she looked down again.

She couldn't name what she was feeling, but he obviously knew it wasn't rejection. Both hands slicked down her belly and pushed between her legs. She moved her feet for him, leaning back automatically. He didn't even take the invitation to grind on her. His right hand moved aside and he cupped her gently.

“Okay,” he whispered, lips grazing her earlobe deliciously.

Oh, hell. She was going to have to say a definite yes. Or maybe moan in bliss. Embarrassing either way, at least for her. She had been hoping for a little plausible deniability later.

“Yeah, but I'm not ready to . . . “ Fuck the spitting image of the man I might never see again.

“Understood.”

One hand tickled up and down her thigh, dragging along the inside and scratching painlessly around to her hip. He pressed in on her clit, holding her up as she wiggled stupidly and nearly slipped. His arm wrapped around her breasts and she groped his forearm. He was crushing her pleasantly, her nipples rubbing on his arm and his grip between her legs a little rough. He let go and ran his fingers up and down a few times, teasing.

Wendy's head was thrown back over his shoulder, her open mouth rasping out long inhales and quick exhaled gasps. She was aroused enough to be stupid. The Middleman slipped a finger into her and she sighed happily. He curled the finger and fit another one inside, moving confidently and without any hints from her. Normally she said and did more, participated, but she didn't really care at the moment.

His thumb was working her clit, passing over it softly, sometimes only hovering above. She closed her eyes and let him sway her side to side. The fingers on her breast and those thrusting between her legs moved faster. The swaying stayed the same. Her hips rocked into his touch and back into his erection. She reached for the wall and made some space between them. He kept moving his fingers, curling and uncurling them as they pumped evenly in her pussy.

“Fuck,” she muttered, sweat running into her eyes.

The mixed up sensation in her stomach was pure roiling heat, wetting his fingers and making her shudder. Wendy gritted her teeth and let the orgasm happen. One hand fumbled on his arm. Her head dipped forward under the shower and she was aware of being utterly helpless.

Afterward, she pried her fingernails from his wrist and hugged the wall. The soap was a welcome distraction as she scrubbed herself. The Middleman was giving her space, doing his staring thing.

“What was that for?” She gathered her courage and glanced at him, noting his unsatisfied erection and shrug.

“You looked tense,” he told her. “It's a liability. It's no big deal.”

See, she repeated mentally, no big deal. Now you can stop planning your breakdown.

“Well, thanks.” You're a peach, Boss. Now I just have to go flog myself for being so wrong.

She took her rat's nest hair and numbly humming body out of his way, and he started washing. She didn't have any doubts whether he jerked off in the shower anymore. Wendy cringed at herself in the mirror and grabbed a towel as she fled.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy didn't get her magic ride home. He didn't get his partner back. In another world, another Middleman gained a Dubbie.

A world of hurt restrained  
Three months and two days later

 

The evening of moving boxes and furniture that had been interrupted by The Middleman's unplanned drinking binge was reprised the next day, and completed with Mr. Noser and Lacey's help. The musician was kind enough to overlook the thoughtless kiss to his somewhat girlfriend. Lacey smiled through the process of stripping the last of Wendy out of the loft. She cheerfully scrubbed down the floor and shelves for her new roommate.

Only when Mr. Noser went across the hall and returned with a box did The Middleman realize he was moving in with Lacey. It went a long way toward explaining why the delay wasn't an issue. Pip had been surprisingly understanding and emotional when Wendy's death was announced. He had suspended half the rent for Lacey until she found someone to help her pay for the apartment. He had even attended the memorial.

The Middleman stood next to the moving van and watched as Pip patiently waited for the movers to drive off so he could use his own car. Lacey had asked for a few mementos to keep, but most of Wendy's possessions were headed for her mother's garage. He had the strange urge to wave as the van turned onto the street.

“Dub-Dub would be happy for me and Noser, I think,” Lacey said quietly. She leaned on his arm and he glanced at her sad smile.

“She would be very happy for you both. And I am . . . as well as being completely appalled with myself, and very apologetic. I assume you told Mr. Noser?”

The blond giggled and grabbed his fingers. “I told him and he's cool. He's a cool guy.”

Nodding, his gaze went up to the windows, and he took his hand gently away. He couldn't be good for Lacey like Mr. Noser. She was obviously as happy as possible under the circumstances. It was too bad Wendy couldn't be around to see the results of the long flirtation.

“Mr. Noser is a very cool guy,” he agreed. “Have you heard from Tyler at all?”

He was sorry to see her face freeze uncomfortably in false calm.

“Tyler was working a lot right after the service. He said he didn't want to hang out where Wendy used to live, so I stopped inviting him over. I haven't really heard from him. I tried to go to an open mic night a few months back, but he dropped out of the lineup. I hope he's okay.”

The Middleman didn't have even the slightest encouragement to offer Lacey about the young man's welfare. He had been assuming Tyler Ford was broken. The Real Time Situation Archive revealed the major step Wendy and Tyler had taken the night before she was lost. The potential of the relationship had been recognized and celebrated within only a few minutes, then they were called to be their separate work selves. Everyone else had lost her on a normal day, but Tyler had last seen Wendy in the happiest moment he'd had with her.

Despite a strong need to help the people close to his partner, The Middleman couldn't think of any comfort he could give her boyfriend. He was more comfortable not thinking of Tyler at all.

He put his arm around Lacey's shoulders and squeezed her gently. “Enjoy your new start,” he told her.

Don't ever feel bad for moving on, he thought. Don't regret being able to cope. Don't feel guilty.

 

A world of hurt  
Three months and two days later

She hadn't known what to do with herself after The Middleman gave her an orgasm in the shower, but he made it easy on her. The next time she walked into the locker room he followed with a sleazy glint in his eyes. He smirked as she looked over her shoulder. Their eyes held until she had to look down. When she looked up he wasn't smirking.

“If it was a one-time thing just say it,” he told her. “I can't deal with the bullshit but I'm fine with rejection. Nothing changes if you don't want it.”

Wendy rubbed her eyes roughly, then made herself stop the childish gesture. “I'm just not sure this is a good thing. We have to be able to work together. We can't work together, the world blows up and the orgasm thing is by the wayside anyway.”

He nodded, absolutely no hints in his posture if he was hoping one way or the other. She'd be happy with an inappropriate erection because at least that would be a reaction.

“It's not like I'm in love with you,” she said. “I can keep it compartmentalized if you can.”

He gave the same slow nod and loosened his tie. “I am expecting my turn this time.”

“Whatever, Boss.”

If there was a deep, hidden wellspring of romance in his soul, Wendy was certain she wouldn't have to deal with it. He stripped down without any seductive motions or even many looks over at her. He dropped his clothes on the floor, the pig, then strutted over to start the water. She watched his ass and grinned at his deliberate flex.

“Give it a rest. I'll be there in a minute,” she said. “No one who wears chaps unironically has body issues. You're hot, okay.”

He made room for her under the water and slicked his big palms down her arms. Her hair absorbed water and started falling down over her eyes. Wendy let him push her back to the tiles. Her hand went out to lean on his shoulder. The Middleman had his thumb hooked under her knee. She bent it up against his neck and pointed her toes down his back.

His mouth latched tentatively on her inner thigh, and she recognized the strange familiarity of the moment. She had lost her virginity in a close approximation of it.

For about a year after her father disappeared, Wendy had been in a fog of pain and anxiety. She tried to help her mother as much as she could, and lost all interest in her friends. Her grades actually went up because she spent all her time trying to do something to take her mind off her feelings. She became so obedient and trouble free her mother started sending her out in the evening with her friends. Bored and uncomfortable, she had sought out kind and quiet Sean, who let her avoid as many conversations as possible. He made her excuses for her.

Eventually they started sneaking away to make out, then groping, and finally had sex in his older brother's car during a school dance. She didn't love him, sometimes felt nothing at all toward him, but he was there. He felt good.

The Middleman's soft nudges over her pussy made her feel present in her new world. She braced her shoulders back and stroked his damp hair gently. She didn't love him but he was there. He was close. She let herself pretend for a few seconds.

Her Middleman had finally made his move, in the shower of all places. He had turned her to him and kissed her mouth so gently she melted. He took her in his arms. He made her feel safe. Her fingers tangled into his hair and she giggled.

“You have duck curls,” she told him. “Cute.”

His tongue plunged inside her, twisting and spiralling deeper than she believed. His hand held her hips steady. Nervous energy was building up in her legs and arms, so she reached up and held on to the shower head. Wendy swayed her hips slowly. He made a soft chiding noise.

“Too much wiggling,” he said, rising to his feet and pinning her flat to the wall. “Last time you weren't this difficult.”

Wendy's eyes slitted open briefly and she murmured, “Last time I was terrified.”

His face changed from the blase masculine interest to something more, and she shook her head. “Never mind. So is it my turn first or yours?”

She ran her fingers down his chest and stopped above his erection. He shrugged and the dangerous look went away. “I'm not really eager to be in here when the water turns ice cold. Let's both have our turns together.”

He pulled her leg up around his hip and she gasped sharply. He didn't penetrate her, but his cock brushed between her legs. Wendy swallowed and wound her fingers around him. He waited a few seconds before he slipped his thumb inside her to wet it.

Her eyes closed and she went back to the fantasy. Her own world, her own Middleman, and a quick mutual orgasm before work; what more could she ask of the universe? Wendy ignored the too long hair sticking to her cheek as she mouthed along his jaw. The unexpected stubble scratched her skin, but maybe they were finishing work instead. Maybe it had been such a long couple of days they'd barely been able to sleep, let alone groom.

How beautiful to have one of his hands holding her close and the other working her body into gasps and stuttering breaths. How wonderful to pump her fingers along his cock and feel him push along her belly. She'd known he'd be good at this. He let her arch her back without stopping anything else. He held under her knee firmly without cutting off circulation. Her wet hair slid back as she tilted her head back to whimper.

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “Harder.”

Her own hand yanked on him roughly, but he didn't seem to mind. His fingers thrust quickly and curved to her body perfectly. He twitched as she clenched her hand and pressed their faces together. She clawed his ass and came breathlessly, remaining quiet. He shot out hot along her belly and let her leg down to shove her into the wall.

Wendy felt like she was somewhere again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy didn't get her magic ride home. He didn't get his partner back. In another world, another Middleman gained a Dubbie.

Five months later  
A world of small civil wars enacted daily

They had killed two guards. Two men had died bloody and screaming. She wasn't even sure the second death had been necessary. The Middleman was carrying on with the mission. He was clipping out a generous portal in the chain link fence and waving hapless civilians out through it. Fatboy medical research volunteers scattered and ran. They would live, despite their terrible judgement.

He had pulled the trigger, both times. The second time she had been hanging off his arm and begging for mercy for the woozy guard. He hadn't listened but he hadn't hurt her. She had given him the excuse to do so.

She trusted him. But she was sitting on the ground next to corpses where he had put her and she didn't understand. Details blurred to symbols. She was grief, guilt, dirty. He was death. These ex-guards, former members of the Fatboy army, they were death, too. The filthy fleeing people were animal instincts missing higher thought.

If she arrived with death, embraced death, let death sink fingers into her pussy and drag out screams, how did she know she wasn't death, too?

The Middleman hustled her back to the car and let her shower alone for a week. He watched her cry but didn't apologize. She stopped crying and got lonely. She tried to rationalize in ways she knew were meaningless to him.

She held back for nine days before she sidled into the shower with him and pressed her face against his shoulder blade. He was a man and a weapon. Her morality would have to adjust to his world before she could blame him.

She didn't apologize and neither did he, but Wendy did nudge around in front of him and drop to her knees.

She was still in his world. She was still somewhere and that had a value and a price.

 

Five months later  
A world of small civil wars enacted daily

Wendy Watson had signed a Do Not Resuscitate order. It was in her medical file, in reluctant preparation for the realities of her job. She had been 'creeped out' by the document, but she'd agreed with the principle. If there was nothing waiting for her except a hospital bed and bags of fluids pumped into and drained out of her, she wasn't really alive and wouldn't want to remain that way.

He had been pleased at the time. She was a mature person who could acknowledge mortality and its head-butting with medical science. She understood his plight and shared his ideal that life was more than vital signs. She had been prepared to risk herself, die for the cause, and if necessary, die after the fact from irreversible injuries.

He liked to think there was hope and a balancing absence of hope for when everything went too wrong to fix. He liked to believe himself a good judge of what was important and worthy of sacrifice. Giving of himself hadn't been difficult after the initial loss of his name to his title. His terror in death came from letting people down and leaving them undefended.

He had no experience weighing the value of another person's life relative to his own, yet he knew Wendy would want him to think that way. If he was spending all his time off the job looking for her, was he doing justice to his own existence? Could he cope with years or decades of fruitless rescue efforts? Would his quest to redeem his failure to protect her cause him to fall down in his immediate missions as The Middleman?

He had a legal document telling him specifically there was a time when she would want him to let go. It just wasn't specific enough for his situation. He had been the one to tell her to never give up. She hadn't, and though he couldn't do anything for her, Wendy had survived without a scratch. She was brave, strong, intelligent and fierce.

Some days the only thing in his tired mind as he sifted in the archives was the mental picture of nodding to a kindly, prematurely grey doctor to disconnect her respirator, then holding her hand as her lungs turned to stone in her chest.

 

Five months and three weeks later  
A world of vague orderliness

Wendy Watson couldn't breathe.

She woke up with a weight on her chest, lips working hers open and fingers pushing her hair away from her eyes. The Middeman was above her in the tiny bunk bed, his naked torso crumpling her sleep shirt. Jeans faded soft with wear rubbed her inner thighs.

“This is . . . new,” she said, falling back on sarcasm like always.

His hands had her hair in a loose bun. He was amazing with her hair, probably from corralling his own. He washed it for her and finger-combed every tangle out. He wasn't overly familiar about it, which she couldn't really explain. He managed to make it some kind of buddy system shower perk. He was doing the same with the wake up hump. His hands jammed under her back and massaged out the sleep numbness. They cupped her ass and kneaded with big, invigorating motions. She was wide awake, slutty emphasis on wide.

Wendy put her arms around his neck and relaxed. This she couldn't compare to anyone in her life. He didn't share her bed but he had slipped in with her to give her this affectionate start to her day. He wasn't even completely hard, which meant he didn't intend for them to have sex. She had imagined herself to be the less eager partner in their situation.

“I already showered,” he whispered into her ear, kissing her neck lightly. “Get up. Time to save the world.”

She let go and he rolled off, leaving her with a feeling much like loss.

 

Five months and three weeks later  
A world where he had never been inside her

The Middleman opened a cabinet in the locker room and his eyes drifted up to the shampoo bottle that had occupied a shelf in the shower during Dubbie's employment. His fingers closed on the plain, unscented white bar soap he had been seeking. He drew in a deep breath and held it. He let it filter out from his chest and take the achy sadness away from him. It took dozens of the same careful inhale-exhale rejections before he acknowledged he wasn't going to work himself around this distraction.

His head fell forward in a kind of measured defeat, and he put the soap down to pick up the shampoo. The scent wasn't overwhelmingly female, but it was the fresh and clean smell he remembered. Wendy used to sit next to him. It never seemed an issue to have her chair pulled up so close their thighs brushed. When she was bored or tired, she shook her hair. It threw out a cloud of warm otherness to him. It was the nearest he'd been to putting his face under the softly thick strands. It had the echo of ancient furry ancestors and male-female relationships narrowed down to scissoring legs and licking each other's faces.

He didn't want to be hard thinking about Dubbie, but that was the reality. He had divided what there was left of her into the work to find her and this personal shame. It was as if he'd become so sad for so long his body was too fatigued to continue, and turned it into arousal instead.

He didn't prioritize a sex life. His urges were strongly contained to brief, appropriate relationships he cut off before they got serious. Sex with his apprentice was out of the question.

What little good he was holding onto demanded he make it a physical act to keep loving Wendy. He took the bar of soap to the water and gritted his teeth as he jerked himself off. The shower covered his harsh breathing, but not his elevated heart rate. The hot water didn't fix the drain of energy when he came. Endorphins fled too quickly and he was alone, sticky and ineffectual.

He needed her to come back and save him. He needed her love in whatever form. It couldn't be for nothing he had found her in this life.


	7. Chapter 7

The world where she began  
Six months later

Sometimes when he gave an order he expected a slight brunette woman to carry it out. He positioned himself clear of her short but perfect legs and snappy fists. He gave the order the way Wendy would accept it, the way she would understand while their enemies were baffled.

In that subtle way, Harold was becoming a little like Dubbie. He operated like a shorter person would, dodging with ducks and drops instead of trying grabs or punches. He had the timing of moves near the precision she had when she disappeared. He ever kept the same few short paces between them if The Middleman gave the order to hang back. Harold's martial arts training started in his childhood, his one way of out-shining her.

He hadn't intended to treat his new apprentice as anything other than a distinct individual, but it seemed some of Dubbie's training had cemented for him. Harold could perhaps do better if there was a way to treat him like the first Middle apprentice who had walked through the doors to Ida's tender mercies. The truth was it happened without any conscious thought. Wendy was the apprentice; what an apprentice should be. She was the measure of all others until she came home.

He hadn't been in love with her. It was too soon for that. But he did love her, and they were the best of friends – in a non-woman sense. He couldn't compete with Lacey's knowledge of Wendy's formative experiences. Lacey would never understand the warrior her roommate became. The young artist's quirks made every moment entirely unique. She gave new meaning and context to all the things around him.

She had once watched a sewer monster collapse into a mountain of pus, then rubbed her stomach and commented on wanting a panini for lunch. He had been pushing down the urge to vomit and she simply shrugged off the moment to anticipate a new one. She was truly alive by moving always forward. It was why the archive meant nothing to her except boredom. It was why Guy Goddard wasn't even on her radar as a man. Wendy was the future personified, making him keep going inexorably.

It was still pleasant to think on her with pride, but it had been more fun before it accompanied an aching regret he couldn't be a mover and shaker with her. He was a good soldier, and good soldiers looked to the past for just about everything. Beautiful painters willing to learn kung fu were an entirely new – possibly a once ever – phenomenon.

Feelings weren't static. They changed all the time, but they never became less. Wendy went from a flirtation to a partner. Even in her absence she was new to him, the empty Dubbie space taking on a character.

He dreamed of talking with her, forgot the words once he woke, but remembered the drugging pleasure of having her again.

He looked up as Ida came into the archive room, jingling a big set of old-fashioned keys. She brushed down her bright dress and stared.

“I'm locking this door in two minutes, and you're either in here for the weekend without a bathroom, or you're out watching a movie,” she said. “You never had much of a life, but you used to try. She would want you to try.”

The Middleman leaned back on his chair and brought his book into his lap. When he smiled it was cold.

“Don't treat her like my vice. Wendy deserves better.”

“Wendy Watson was a talented, loyal apprentice and your best friend. With any luck, she's in another universe whipping that Middleman into shape. With a litte more luck, she'll find her way back or you'll find a way to go get her,” the android said crisply. “You're the one making her a ghost. She would want you to go to a movie.”

He accepted the truth while the lies shuddered over his conscience. Wendy would want him to have a life, but he didn't know if she was in any position to want anything. She might be injured, tortured or dead. She might have been driven insane by the enormous energies of the wormhole.

“I'll buy the popcorn, Boss.”

Ida's round face was smiling, determined. She hated going outside. The Middleman stood up and pulled his jacket down. A few hours would not change things considerably, he told himself. It would be an investment in Ida's cooperation.

“Do you like Westerns, Ida?”

 

The world where she might end  
Six months later

Lines blurred. She'd learned that in art class. A crayon-smeared, six year old Wendy Watson was taught her fingertip scrubbed gently on her fresh pencil drawings could create shadow and tone. She'd learned to make more of what was there by not wanting it to be perfect.

The leap was clear after a few months of shower orgasms. One day The Middleman didn't even wait for the shower. He stalked silently behind her and let her take off every stitch before he looped his tie over her wrists. She flinched and his hands lifted off, hovering above her skin. It was the moment to say no, but she didn't want to say no.

He picked her up and bent down over the bench. The wooden slats were uncomfortable and she was too long to fit. Wendy's spinning head hung over the end with her tied wrists. His hands stroked her legs, up and down in a lazy possessiveness. She was afraid to meet his eyes.

He pulled her ankles up, one after the other. When she was arched and bent up and down and up again like a particularly hot, gasping bridge he wanted to drive upon, The Middleman bit at her shin. Wendy could barely admit it to herself – maybe to her own Lacey while they were both drunk – but she liked that her fear of him wasn't gone. Sometimes he would move or speak and she would be awash in frozen panic. He could really hurt her. He could really kill her. He could draw blood, and break bones.

It was what made him safe.

She concentrated on being still while staying on the bench. Her arms and neck were aching slightly. Wendy let her head drop back and felt his mouth on her knee. It slicked up her thigh, his palm pushed her legs together and squeezed them. Heat gathered in her hollows, imagined pools of hormones overruling sane objections.

His stubble sanded over her legs and his fingers tilted them open. She held her breath. If he wanted to fuck her she had to have an answer in advance. The Middleman could be very, very sexy.

He pushed his face down on her pussy and sighed so hard she shuddered. She had a sinking feeling he was doing just fine seducing her, and he knew it. Her arms had swung up to clutch at the back of his head.

“Wha-what's the plan here,” she squeaked unnecessarily. He knew she'd have questions because she always had questions.

He looked at her with an amused slant to his mouth and his eyebrow. “Well, I was going lick you gently, then more firmly, then put my lips around your clit and hum. If that didn't make you come I'd planned to just dig in with my tongue and give you a little move I like to call the whirlwind.”

What she was thinking as a string of profanities filthy enough to shock even him came out as a garbled vowel sound. “Okay, and after that?”

He lowered his eyebrow and ducked away from her grip. “I was going to ask if we could use the condom I have in my pocket.”

She didn't do a good job covering up her expression, and he tucked his head between her legs again.

“Wait, wait,” Wendy said frantically. “Can we just . . . move to the floor? And skip to the second part?”

He was off her and on his feet before she thought he could have made sense of her words. The Middleman started tossing clean towels down and pulled his shirt off. She let him lift her off the bench and lay her down on the floor. She bundled some of the towels under her head and watched him move around the room quickly. His belt was whipped off and thrown into the corner. His pants slapped the side of a locker. If she didn't know why he was getting naked she'd assume he was enraged. Maybe he was enraged. She didn't pretend to understand him.

Though both of them were commandoes, only The Middleman went commando. Her Middleman was very into the propriety of a clean pair of boxers. He also didn't believe in giant coiled snaked tattoos on the buttocks, so if she ever had to tell the difference between his right cheek and The Middleman's she was ready and able.

He was down on his knees, rolling on a condom, and she was in a cold sweat. It was hard to know what to expect from a man, impossible when you'd known two versions of him. Their secret, masochistic jerk offs and petting sessions didn't have stakes like she was inviting.

How long was he really going to wait for this from me, she told herself bleakly. I'm not his only prospect but he's pretty much mine.

Even with her uncharitable thoughts, Wendy knew she could say no. She could say a lot of things, but she got the feeling all answers were final with him. Saying no once was saying no forever. She wasn't prepared to live with him while wondering if she was stranded from everyone she loved and hopelessly misjudging the one person in her life.

The harsh smell of spermicide made her put a hand up as he levered down on top of her. Reality was such a mood killer. “I'm not yours, you know.”

Flickers of mockery and anger crossed his face, subsided and eased into a look of deep observation. He adjusted his knees and lined up his cock. His hand curled idly under her knee and slid down to spread moisture around her entrance.

“I didn't have a ring in my pocket, cupcake. It's just a condom. You talk too much,” he said. “Are you changing your mind?”

He had to curve his back to face her, legs folded underneath him, and perfect abs crunched into a six-pack. She would be stupid not to want him. Her head shook and he pushed into her with his eyes pointed right at hers. The push seemed very long and her sweaty hands fisted into the towels. Wendy licked her lips and he kissed her. His mouth just took over hers and she didn't mind the lack of space or control.

One brave hand separated from the makeshift bed and felt the muscles in his shoulders gather and release. Wendy tightened her legs around him and rolled her hips. She forgot why she was hesitant about intercourse. His penis couldn't change her. Too much time between made old, virginal fears kick in or something.

It wasn't very different from his fingers. He liked long strokes in, but he wasn't mean about it. One motion melted into the next smoothly. His eye was closed sometimes, but he was paying attention to her.

She locked her ankles and lifted her hips off the floor. The Middleman thrust in with a upward tilt and held there. Her belly trembled and he grazed her nipple with his teeth.

“Wendy.”

Even before she looked she knew she didn't want to. His eye was deep brown and she realized it would be exactly how her Middleman would look at her if he was inside her on the locker room floor. There was an echo of something too proud to be worship. It was a warm, hidden thing he probably would deny existed.

“Oh, shit,” she mumbled. Her eyes closed and she jerked up to him harder. If she ever found herself in love with him she'd be doomed to have to stay. His world didn't have to kill her to destroy her. It had turned the other Wendy Watson into a boot licking lackey of a dictator, then a dictator herself. Sex wasn't death, but it could be destruction.

She knew the heightened emotions were hormonal. She knew there wasn't anything permanent about having sex. It would be over in a minute.

The Middleman rubbed his face over hers, got their hair out of the way, and kissed her again. He was breathing loudly on her cheek. His body had fallen into easy push ups. Her body clenched and she moaned into his mouth. He made a noise of assent.

Wendy felt his hands up near her hips and pushing her legs out wider. She gasped when he shoved his cock in with nearly brutal force. The Middleman paused and she shook her head. It was too late to worry about anything except finishing. His body came down heavily and she braced as he drove in and out as fast as he could. There was a brush along her clit, fingers under her ass lifting her, then an orgasm like a concussive wave from a bomb.

The condom wasn't enough to keep them apart, she realized too late. It kept his semen from going inside her, but it didn't help the overwhelmingly fucked up moment of holding him as he came. It didn't change the fact that he returned from trashing the condom to a lingering hug she started. They were both in, whatever that would prove to mean.


	8. Chapter 8

A universe where his enemy was the absence of smartass  
Six months, three days and four point seven hours later

The Middleman sat up slowly in his cell, uneasy as he realized he wasn't a captive of some alien race or evil genius. He was in a regular police station, and he felt like he'd been dosed on the 130 per cent liquor used in ceremonial toasts with the troll kings who had a treaty with the Middle organization to stay underground.

He couldn't meet the gaze of an officer who gave him a bottle of water through the bars.

Ida had slipped him a Mickey. He should have seen something was up when she agreed to bring refreshments into the archive for his marathon of research. She didn't understand how he was still not over Dubbie's disappearance. Ida knew a lot, but she was limited in her understanding. She stopped at logic, and if he were a purely logical man he never would have taken an impossible role for an imperfect world.

Harold showed up to bail him out early in the morning. The apprentice drove as The Middleman tried not to be sick on the upholstery. In the office, Ida looked up from her mah jong tiles and gave a chin tilt.

“Sorry, Boss. I didn't think you'd get out the door before it hit you.”

She didn't understand, and Harold didn't need to feel the pressure and rejection of knowing there was an ongoing, desperate search for the previous apprentice. The Middleman was alone in his personal mission. He defiantly avoided his bed and showered to start another long day of work.

 

A universe where he wanted to see bliss on his enemy's face  
Six months, three days and four point seven hours later

He knew the difference between Wendy Watson, CEO of Fatboy, and Wendy Watson, Middleman apprentice. He'd only met the former on one occasion and they'd shot at each other so there wasn't much conversation. Her rage and clear lack of hesitance to kill had forced him to abandon the Middle hog. But he'd left the scene with Dubbie and her friend, and counted himself the winner many times over.

He didn't know until later Wendy Watson had killed his apprentice, or he would have aimed to kill her for certain.

There were a lot of layers to dealing with his new apprentice. She believed in him. Ida knew he was capable, but Dubbie believed in him without seeing him do anything more than throw out passive aggressive barbs at her clothes and her desire to return home. She made eye contact without fear, looked him up, down and sideways in a militaristic way, and judged him worthy. She paid him to get him off his ass and he hopped to it with a little more enthusiasm than he'd known was left.

The first thing he'd noticed was the Middle armament, but the second was the pretty leg it was strapped to. He had gone back to working on his bike but he took in the whole show Dubbie had, and he liked it just fine. Now that he'd ridden both of them, he couldn't say his fondness for riding the Middle hog was greater than coming inside Wendy.

She walked like someone who was loved. Her hips swung suggestively, and her hair rustled fragrantly. She wasn't available or slutty, just knowing. She lived among friends and lovers. She was handled the way she liked, and spoken to about her actions more than her ass. To a lot of people in her own world, he was sure Wendy's soul was a venerated truth. She didn't flinch at every touch, or endure it starkly. She was fresh meat thrown into a world of hungry lions.

He hadn't had a woman in years as trusting as she was. The others were used up, either by experiencing abuse or fearing it. They tried to be uncaring and just made themselves numb. It was terrifying to remember sending her away to break into Fatboy alone. She could have died ten times over by the time he did the right thing.

He had a very direct plan to return his life to miserable equanimity. Wendy would go home and be safely with her own Middleman again. It failed, and his immediate plan B was to put her on a leash and parade her around as obviously as possible so everyone got the message she wasn't to be touched. He was lucky in hindsight that Wendy had lain low for a week. Just her face could get her killed. Their first visit to the black market was show and tell for the lowlifes. Once they knew she was protected they would choose easier prey and he didn't have to live in terror for the moment she decided to run an errand.

His world had been broken, and with it his ability to believe in himself. Tyler had died alone, lost in the corridors of their enemy. The Middleman's orders had done that, while he had saved himself. He had been hoping his apprentice followed his instincts to get out, but he hadn't made sure. The young man had deserved better than a failed leader steering him into danger without watching his back.

Dubbie's back arched under his fingers and he lifted his hand to let soap rinse off. She turned to look at him. Her hair was dripping onto her breasts and her mouth sat on his arm for a moment.

“Is something wrong,” she asked innocently.

She had changed everything. He had been coping when everything was wrong. Now there was a right thing in front of him, under his hands and believing in him. She was lovely, soft, and he was stealing her from a living Tyler Ford in an alternate universe. He was quite possibly stealing her from another Middleman, though the idea of her cheating wasn't fitting. She was the only right thing and his world did not have a place for her.

“I'm fine.”

Her little nod turned into the stretch up for a kiss he couldn't refuse. The brunette who sneered at him almost all the time, and managed to look down her nose at him even as short as she was, liked kissing him. She put her arms around him and rested, calm and utterly defenseless. He pushed her wet hair off her forehead.

She made him a failure. She made him a king.

There were far worse men out there, and they would treat her like a toy and a pet. They would hurt and humiliate her for their own amusement. They would sell her to her alter ego when the games were done, because she was dangerous to be around.

He was uncomfortable with her unless they were naked. He just didn't know what to do with all that life and hope coming straight at him. She didn't say anything about his disappearing acts at night, but he knew she noticed. He noticed her noticing and holding her tongue. What she imagined he did on those nights was probably not flattering. He was letting her down and he knew that.

Wendy scrubbed at one of his arms and he winced. “That's a real one, cupcake. It's not going to come clean,” he remarked.

Her hands pressed on the mark, tracing it. She wasn't seduced by the tattoos. He thought she considered them a flaw. She dabbed at a sore spot and he looked closer.

“It's a cut, I think,” Dubbie murmured. “I'll get the disinfectant.”

She moved around him, their slick bodies brushing easily. Sometimes there was nothing in the way of being together and she trusted him. Her body became silk and fire on his cock, gliding on him relentlessly with licks of heat and purifying rage. He didn't want to lose her. He didn't want to have to miss moments when she cleaned up the holes punched into his flesh.

She came back and her fingers slipped gently over the wound, soothing it easily. His arm lifted and flexed, showing off her handiwork. Wendy kissed the back of his hand. Her thin neck bent and fragile, she closed her eyes and leaned back on the tiles. There was a condom pinched between her fingers and her nipples were tight. She came meltingly into his arms and he pushed them both into the corner for stability. He wanted nothing more than to sink into her, his teeth into her shoulder, hands pressing hard enough to feel raw bones and his cock driving as deep inside her as any man should go.

Sometimes he didn't care she was stolen.

 

The universe where she didn't have any right to have him  
Six months, three days and four point seven hours later

Wendy finished washing her hair and turned to look at The Middleman with consternation. He was never a chatterbox, but his silence was weighty and worrying. She knew he wasn't thinking about the mission because he had barely indulged her in planning for it. It was a simple smash and grab for tech supplies, with not even a live guard to cause trouble.

Which meant, by process of elimination, she was the trouble.

Her ass, dead or alive, could be hauled into Fatboy for $170,000 piggies. She wasn't clear on the rate of exchange in exact U.S.D, but it was something like $213,000. She was officially worth more dead than alive. She had expected her art career to take off a little before that happened.

Having her live with him was making The Middleman a bulls eye on the map. Wendy Watson hadn't found them, but it was something that wouldn't go away. Obviously someone at Fatboy had spotted her somewhere and passed the information to her double. Six months was probably a pretty long time to get away with being public enemy number one in solitude.

She had money saved up. The Middleman just had to say the word and she would pack her meager belongings and head out on her own. Lacey had a disguise waiting under the sink, and a bottle of hair dye to make brown hair dishwater blond. Ida would let her tan a few shades darker, and she would be a new woman.

It wasn't like she expected he would send her out unarmed without warning. He would get her a vehicle and load her up with firepower. The problem was fear. She would be alone. There would be no backup and no way to return once she was solo. Beds and showers would be rare, let alone beds or showers containing large men to touch her tenderly. Middle HQ was her home and she would miss it, but she was a big girl. The Middleman had done his duty by her and it wasn't his fault she was lost.

“Is something wrong?”

She was not going to make him feel bad for doing this. He had to live to save the world. She was a threat to that. He paused, long enough that it was a significant one for him.

“I'm fine.”

He left a lot at night, the most dangerous time to be caught anywhere. He didn't come back smelling particularly whorish or drunk. She suspected he went on missions without her. Her own Middleman had done that for a while, until Ida had started tipping her off. Her Middleman's covert activities stopped. The Middleman probably didn't have that luxury. If she didn't get him killed one way she might get him killed any one of a dozen other ways.

He was still as she kissed and hugged him, closing her eyes and leaning in to fit her arms around his big chest. There always had to be a moment like it before she felt clean from a mission. Her boss had patted her back gently and she knew they had both made it back safe. The Middleman touched the top of her head softly.

She was sad for him. He thought he had screwed up his world by not preventing the current situation. The economy had been weak for decades before Fatboy took over. The government had collapsed from corruption three times since The Middleman had been born. He was born into a world on its way to breaking. He just happened to take the lead when it came about.

Wendy's hand snuck to his shoulder, testing his reaction. He made a face and she looked more closely at the tattoo she had stroked. There was a little spot of red.

“That's a real one, cupcake. It's not going to come clean,” he said.

The tattoos made sense for him like they wouldn't have for her Middleman. She liked that he was comfortable enough to wear some of his darkness on the outside.

“It's a cut, I think,” she told him, moving to the side and around him. “I'll get the disinfectant.”

She took a condom as well as the tube of gel, wondering how to tell his mood when he was intent on silence. It wasn't like he was ever incapable of sex. He let her clean up the cut and tested the arm before letting her take hold of his wrist. Her mouth landed on the back of his hand – kissing it better.

He rarely needed more than the hint of her cooperation. She moved back to the wall and he shifted them to the corner. His hands gripped under her ass while she opened the condom and rolled it on him. When he lifted her off her feet he was careful to let her line them up. He never used force with her and she wondered if that was a good or a bad thing. She secretly hoped he was a born soldier, a brute designed to survive his world and enjoy the challenge of its violence. She hoped he toned himself down so he wasn't hurting her, so he could bite her as he came and not leave her bleeding.

Waves of heat took her mind out of her contemplation, and she clawed at his back helplessly. It was the only world they had.


	9. Chapter 9

A cold world  
Seven months later

Winter hit with snowstorms and exteme cold temperatures. Wendy blamed Fatboy for cutting down all the trees in the city and bought flannel and fleece when she could find it. The Middleman building was better off than most, but heating the entire thing was an impossibility. She abandoned her top floor studio late in November, and the bunk room in mid December. Her clothes fit in the locker room, her personal effects were very few, and her paints were hidden in a closet until she needed to use them again.

She took a blanket and pillows to the lumpy sofa in the front room, not looking forward to a night on the naugahyde. It would do for the coldest months, even if she had to sleep in long sleeves and sweat pants. Being warm wasn't a fashion show, she told herself.

The bed was made as much as she could, and she was headed over to turn out the lights when The Middleman came into the room. He looked at her intended comfort zone and sneered. “What are you doing out here?”

The ugly, impersonal room suddenly felt like her territory. She had to defend it.

“The heat in the bunk room is screwed up. I'm sleeping out here. It's perfectly comfortable,” she said. “Why?”

His soft lower lip squashed between his teeth, he flexed his neck around in a tight circle. “Is this supposed to be telling me to keep my hands off you? I'm not good at signals like this, Dubbie. You say it, it's done, but give me some credit. You didn't think I had a bed? You didn't think you'd be allowed in it?”

She didn't want his bed. His bed held his pillows and his blankets. His bed should have his girlfriend in it, and she wasn't that. While she was still calling him The Middleman and thinking of her old boss as her own Middleman it wasn't right. She might be his, but not really, and he was not hers.

“NASA would have to calculate the amount of imposition my presence causes you,” Wendy told him. “I know I'm not the kind of apprentice you need. I know I freak out sometimes and you're pretty nice about it. Asking for more seemed ungrateful.”

His dark stare made her lift one bare foot and put it on top of the other. He finally blinked and yanked the carefully arranged covers up to hang over his shoulder.

“Get your damn pillows and follow me,” he grumbled. “Fucking women.”

His room was on the first floor, behind the main office and close to the underground exit. Wendy supposed that made sense for a speedy escape. The dresser had a few stacks of magazines she didn't want to look at too closely, but otherwise it was clean, tidy and smelled of fresh linens. The queen size bed was made up with light brown sheets and an olive comforter. The Middleman stacked the two pillows on one side and gestured to the other for her.

“Have at it, Dubbie.”

Her pillows looked out of place next to his, so she sat down and tried not to look as awkward as she felt. The unintentionally hilarious leopard print chair in one corner caught her eye. Ida was really an odd choice to decorate HQ, and in some cases Wendy wondered if the android needed her eyes checked.

The Middleman dumped her blankets on the chair and she stood up to fold them. He disappeared into the bathroom and she gave herself the pre-sleepover pep talk. If he didn't like her at least a little she wouldn't be in his bed. She didn't have to worry about drooling or snoring because everybody was only human. She would be safe, warm and troubled by only a little morning breath.

She took off the sweat pants and got under the covers, finger combing her hair. The Middleman came back, stripped down to tats and eyepatch and climbed in. The mattress heaved and shook as he moved around. Wendy folded herself up meekly and stared at the ceiling.

“Uh, goodnight,” she mumbled, closing her eyes.

He rolled back toward her, pinched a bit of her sleeve, and frowned. “Are you still cold?”

He had a ridiculous amount of body heat. She was nearly sweating, but the clothes helped. “No.”

The Middleman sat up and pulled down the blankets to get his hands under her. He worked the shirt up from her hips to her neck and bit at her chin lightly. “Cupcake, it gets warm in this bed. You need to sleep, so let me take it off,” he told her.

Wendy raised her arms and tipped her head until the fabric whooshed over her face and cleared her hands. She lay back and pulled the blanket up as he threw her shirt somewhere. He was looking at her, so she opened her eyes cautiously.

“It's been a long time since I've had a partner, and if you don't impose on me I don't know what to do for you. I wasn't trustworthy when you got here, but I'm trying now.”

Earnest, sincere, humble reasoning was nothing if not the hallmark of her Middleman. She nodded quickly and kissed him to shut him up. The bed she could possibly handle, but the similarities in the differences killed her every time.

“Okay. Goodnight,” she whispered.

He hung above her for a few more seconds, then lay down and turned off the lamp. She tried to block out the new sensations of being in bed with him. His scent carried as the sheets warmed underneath them.

Is possession really nine-tenths of the law, she worried. Can you ever be someone's without them being yours?

 

A winter wonderland  
Seven months later

 

Lacey Thornfield kicked through the snow to Wendy's Boss' car, turning back quickly to wave at her boyfriend as he looked down from the sixth floor of their illegal sublet. She grinned and hopped in the fresh powder. Her cruelty free non-leather boots felt damp around the toes and she wrinkled her nose.

“Hi,” she chirped, sitting in the passenger side of the big, black car. “I'm ready if you are.”

The Middleman smiled at her and squinted at her knitted cap. It had pointed ears, like Batman's costume. It was white, however, and she was sporting white mittens as well.

“Hello Lacey. Does your hat have ears,” he asked.

“Yeah, it's a cat hat.” She held up her hands. “And cat paws.”

The young woman was recovering better than he could have expected, largely due to Mr. Noser's constant support and company. It was the only reason he was allowing himself to involve her in a harmless but potentially trying mission. Tyler Ford was gone. His former roommate had no idea where he was, the bank account and cellphone under that name had been closed, and Fatboy no longer employed him.

In the best case, Tyler had moved on quite literally and remade his life without Dubbie. In the worst, he was under the city cobbling together inventions to avenge her with parts stolen from Manservant Neville. Although, The Middleman admitted to himself there was a particularly bleak option. It was possible Tyler Ford wasn't anywhere to be found because he wasn't anymore. Suicide was not an option for The Middleman, but the notion had been in his mind fleetingly during the initial shock.

In any case, he was worried over the young man and wanted to check on him. To simplify things he was going to have Lacey do the asking after Tyler at Fatboy. She had arranged for a quick meeting with Manservant Neville.

“Now, if the meeting becomes tense or it doesn't feel right, you leave immediately,” he told her. “Walk away, go home and I'll be in touch. If it's an emergency you can call Ida at my office and you have my cellphone number as well.”

Lacey took off her hat and shook her blond hair. “I know. This is going to be fine. I mean, Wendy did this kind of stuff for you every day. I'm not scared. It's only an office.”

He let her out around the corner from the building and pulled back into traffic to continue driving. He would circle a four block radius until Lacey was out and clear of Fatboy property. It was only a precaution. Nothing about the company suggested they were evil, and their environmental impact was truly minimal. It was entirely possible Manservant Neville was an entrepreneur with integrity and social conscience, who had coincidentally employed a former prospective Middleman.

A last glance at the blond going into the glass doors under the Fatboy logo made him nod firmly. He would never send Lacey into danger. She was asking for contact information for an old friend. Maybe Tyler had gone to live with his family or found happiness somewhere far away.

Deep down, The Middleman doubted it. He couldn't conceive of a man who loved Wendy Watson ever getting over her death. On some level, he disapproved of anyone doing so.


	10. Chapter 10

Where intimacy grows in rocky ground  
Seven months and 16 days later

Wendy had always suspected day to day contact with The Middleman would make them close, even if they hated each other. It was human nature to bond, and she was certain neither of them felt hate between them.

She missed her friends and family, sometimes ached for a hug from Tyler, but she wasn't alone. Since the living arrangements had changed, she caught The Middleman acting like a boyfriend a lot.

They were having sex about three times a day, during the morning and bedtime showers and usually in the afternoon. That kind of frequency had never happened in her own world, and if it had would have been accompanied by the shiny-new-boyfriend desire to never be apart. Wendy needed her quiet time more than ever. A few months earlier she would have shot herself in shame, and it was hard to move entirely past the first impressions.

He had stopped being mean not long after she moved into Middleman HQ, but now he was actively being nice. He made breakfast for both of them, and carried her plate into his room so she could eat in bed. He took her boots off for her after a long day and pressed his thumbs into her heels on a magic spot that hurt like hell for ten seconds and melted away pain afterward. Traditionally, a willingness to touch her sweaty socks signified love.

He had facial expressions she'd never seen on him before, ranging from vulnerability to longing. He told her things about himself she wasn't prepared to reciprocate. He told her about Captain Sparks without her having to trick him into personal confidences about Irish Setters or other deeply held secrets.

She plumped her pillow and watched him sleep, his face calm and his mouth soft-looking. He always took the side of the bed closer to the door, forming a wall between her and any danger. He always went first on missions. He even got out of bed first to throw her something to wear for the short walk to the bathroom.

I didn't give him much credit, she thought. I wonder if it bothered him or if he's been alone too long for it to matter?

Wendy's fingers slipped along the sheet toward him, her breath held as she kept watch on his eye. He could wake in an instant and have her pinned, his body crushing hers. He wouldn't, of course. He had some way of knowing it was her in the bed. He didn't steal the covers or intrude on her space. He didn't push her away when she inched over to take advantage of his body heat.

She sat up slowly, the sheet falling down around her. It pulled lower on his chest and she opened her hand on his side. He wasn't her Middleman but he meant all of the comfort and safety she had.

“Wake up,” Wendy murmured. “Time to start a new day of post-apocalyptic splendor and blowing shit up.”

She tickled across his ridiculously toned abs, felt the change in his inhale, and smiled. “If you're angling for a blow job, you're out of luck. I'm not a hang over cure.”

His eyelashes fluttered and he smirked. “Really? You mean that, cupcake? You wouldn't make me sad, would you?”

The Middleman flicked their blankets down and folded his hands behind his head, his cock rising quickly. Wendy nodded. “Impressive for a man your age,” she complimented casually. “But you're still not getting a blow job.”

He shrugged and reached down to tug on his erection. The motion was unhurried and she found herself bobbing her chin in rhythm. Her hips squirmed from side to side as warmth rose between her thighs. The Middleman's free hand came up and cupped her breast. He kneaded her softly, picking up speed with the hand on his cock.

“You're missing out,” he drawled. “I'm incredible.”

Little darts of pleasure were rolling down her body and convincing her, but she shook her head. “You're okay.”

Nodding philosophically, he tweaked her other nipple and sighed. “Yeah, I guess these little beauties could be bigger. This though,” he slipped fingers between her legs and clenched his fist around his penis. “Can't get any better.”

His approval mattered way too much, and Wendy pushed his hand away gently. She licked her lips and reached over him for a condom. He returned his hands behind his head and let her roll it on without any further talking.

“You're not even going to sit up, are you,” she grumbled. “I can tell already this is going to be the thrill of my life.”

His mouth turned up in a grin she recognized as glee, and he wiggled his head around. “You know it, chickie. Ride like the wild wind, cowgirl. We have work to do.”

Wendy tossed her head back and laughed uncomfortably. Her face flushed with embarrassment for him. Her Middleman had moments of goofiness, but The Middleman seemed to save it all up for months and let it out in a long babble of nonsense and silliness. It was an unsettling difference, like watching him clunk a wrench drunkenly at the Middle mobile's engine when shooting sentries between the eyes kept him up at night.

“You just spontaneously sex haiku-ed,” she said grimly, leaning down and throwing her leg over him. “Shut up now.”

She dug her hand into his hair and kissed him hard, forcing his chin back and exposing his neck. The Middleman was ticklish. He smelled of leather, citrus, and warmth like sunshine. Her breath stuttered as his hand steadied her hips. In a slow, rocking tease, Wendy lowered herself on his cock.

She turned her face away and tried to sit up on him, but he grunted a protest and turned her mouth back to his. She pushed his shoulders as he moved, keeping him underneath her. The hand on her hip slid to Wendy's back and flattened her down to him.

They moved together uneasily, his hands trying to get her closer. Wendy bobbed her head and her hips at the same time, getting halfway upright before he yanked at her hair. She slapped his arms down and he let her, panting as heat rose on their skin.

“Let me work, Boss,” she snarled flirtatiously.

“Eric,” he breathed, eye barely open as he wrapped his hands around her waist. She flinched and The Middleman stopped, held her still as she turned her face drastically to the left. Her body tensed and clenched as she slid one foot to the floor and stood up off him, his cock leaving a damp smear on her thigh.

“Sorry! I, uh, twisted wrong . . . my knee. I'm sorry,” she mumbled.

She moved pretty goddamned fast into his bathroom and locked the door before the shower started. The man in the bed ground his fists into the mattress.

 

Where opportunity knocks loudly, waking sleeping dogs  
Seven months and 2 days later

Lacey let the The Middleman into her apartment and gestured to a perturbed Mr. Noser sitting on the sofa.

“Hi, there. You're not supposed to talk to my boyfriend because he's mad at you,” she said cheerfully. “Have a seat.”

Her roommate's former employer looked puzzled as he sat down opposite the normally tolerant musician. He smiled uneasily and the young man shifted his guitar in a way that said he wasn't having it – there would be no polite repartee.

“Thank you, Lacey. I'm grateful you were able to make my inquiries at Fatboy for me. Normally, I would have handled it myself, but it tends to raise paranoia to ask around another company for an overly simple reason. I trust things went well?”

She was pouring something green into a tall glass and he suspected it contained algae. Ever since his first sea monster he couldn't even eat sushi with pleasure. Hopefully the beverage wasn't for him. Noser was looking as disgusted as he felt, though, so he prepared himself to at least drink half. He could be queasy later.

“It was weird. Manservant Neville saw me and he said Tyler quit two months after Wendy . . .” She looked pained for a moment and he nodded quickly. “He was discouraged and he wanted to get back to music. He planned to go stay with his family for a while. They lost touch and Manservant Neville has been leaving him alone out of respect. But he had a phone number.”

The blond took a sip of the green goo and both men shuddered. Lacey gave The Middleman a glass of milk and he took it with relief.

“Manservant Neville didn't seem resentful to lose his protege,” he asked.

“No. He was kind of sad. He said he intends to check up with Tyler soon, but he asked for space when he left. Do you think there's something shady going on at Fatboy?”

Mr. Noser stood up and set his guitar on a stand next to the sofa, giving his girlfriend a significant look.

“Tell him the thing,” he intoned seriously. “'Your purple prose just gives you away. The things you say; you're unbelievable.'”

Sneering as much as her pretty face and bright personality would let her, Lacey rolled her eyes. The gesture was pure Wendy Watson, and The Middleman put his milk down. When he thought too much about Dubbie there wasn't any room for food or drink.

“Manservant Neville offered me a job! I think it will be really cool,” she said. “But I didn't say yes yet. Noser thinks working in a corporation wouldn't make me happy. What do you think?”

He thought he had to look into Fatboy very closely, and get in touch with Tyler Ford or his parents for a current address. If Lacey was getting involved, the company had to pass a white glove inspection.

“I think a better opinion to consider is Tyler's,” he said. “Consider the offer, and I'll make sure to get his impressions of working there when I speak with him.”

Lacey nodded quietly and he realized all the effort Wendy had put toward worrying about her friends and family had somehow become part of his promise to return her to her life. She would never forgive herself if Lacey came to harm while she was gone.


	11. Chapter 11

A new dawn, a new day, a new life  
Seven months and five days later

The Middleman called Tyler Ford's cellphone, left a message, and received a puzzled call back the next day. It seemed the young man had been preparing for a concert the previous day, but he was available for coffee that afternoon. He knew a place where they gave him a discount.

“I play here on weekends,” Tyler said, putting two coffee cups down on the tiny cafe table. “They throw me freebies. You want some food?”

The guitar case leaned on the edge of the table slid, and The Middleman caught it and set it upright. He shook his head and took in the musician's appearance. He dressed casually and was perhaps a little skinny. His floppy hair made the former Navyman itchy just looking at it.

“No, thank you, Tyler. I'm sorry it took so long to meet up again. I meant to give you some time and it turned into months,” he said.

He noted a twitch at the corner of Tyler's mouth, maybe a wry half smile that was quickly gone.

“It's cool. I understand everyone who knew Wendy went through a lot. I mean, you spent as much time with her as I did; maybe more, some days.” He paused and sipped his drink, a trace of unpleasant emotion slipping out. The Middleman tasted his own coffee and decided he liked the bitterness as it was.

“I liked what you said at the memorial. It was . . . right. Somebody needed to say it, and the rest of us were still pretty shocked. I felt like I was babbing whenever I opened my mouth. I wanted to be a lot more help but I wasn't fit for much except tantrums. I threw my guitars off the roof of my building after I stormed out of the memorial. I also managed to smash up my landlord's car in the process, so I got shoved into a fresh start.”

The Middleman had locked himself in the garage with lighter fluid and his Eisenhower jackets, trying to convince himself he had the right to wear them. Ultimately, it was the fear of being taken off duty and hooked up to whatever diabolical machine treated depression in Middlemen that made up his mind. Idleness would never earn back the honour he felt had been lost with Dubbie. Until she returned, he would wear the uniform to symbolize hope.

The silence had stretched and Tyler held up an open hand. “Hey, man, I didn't mean to be depressing. It was hard and I spent a while on an old sofa in my parents' basement. I'm feeling a lot better. The worst was believing Wendy was really gone. I kept having these strong, panicky moments where I was convinced she was alive and I had to find her. I thought I was going crazy.”

“I can assure you I did everything I could to urge a search and rescue effort,” The Middleman insisted. “The plane crashed over open water and just about everything was swept away. If there was any chance for Dubbie-”

Tyler's open palm slapped the table and tipped the napkin holderover. The Middleman looked at him warily, waiting for the outpouring of accusation he had been expecting.

“Don't make everything about her being gone. She was amazing, and I was lucky to know her for any amount of time. She wouldn't want us to be angry, and I don't want to forget all the good things because I'm obsessing on the pain. I want to make something of it that lasts.”

The young man had found closure less than a year later, and The Middleman felt the sting of resentment. His chances of finding Wendy were slim, at best, and his life would revolve around it until the job killed him. In good conscience, he couldn't pass on the rescue effort as a part of being The Middleman. The isolation was a strain, and the worry of dying was brand new. If he died, Wendy never came home. If he put his own life ahead of his duties, he was no longer the man she'd admired.

He wouldn't solve that paradox soon, so he smiled wanly and nodded as he righted the napkins.

“Yes, you're right. I'm sorry. The least I can do is act as she would want,” he agreed. “You said you were making something?”

Ducking his head, Tyler nodded. He ran a hand through his hair and murmured, “She was my muse. I used to write like a songnado.”

He met The Middleman's eyes and blushed. “A tornado made of . . . songs . . . So I try to write every day. I don't know if anything will come of it, but if I can write a top ten song for my cheating girlfriend I can write a whole catalogue of stuff about Dub-Dub.”

Back on solid topics, there was less trouble finding things to say without starting a conflagration of guilt and recrimination.

“She said your music was very good,” the older man replied. “I'd enjoy hearing it some time.”

Tyler's smile was grateful and he nodded toward the stage. “Show starts in half an hour. You should hang out. So, how's the gang? I heard Lacey and Noser are dating?”

The neat segue led to all the questions about Fatboy Industries The Middleman needed to have answered. It was a good company and Tyler hadn't found any skeletons during his time there. He had been given assignments in every department and become familiar with the surface workings of each one. They did what they said, and were as inwardly environmentally conscious as their image.

Tyler went to warm up his voice and tune his guitar, and The Middleman ordered another coffee. It reminded him of early mornings coaxing Wendy out of a bad mood and counselling judicious use of stimulants. He felt rather sentimental by the time Tyler started playing. His mouth curved into a sad smile. Dubbie would have loved the song named after her.

“Wendy, Wendy, you're my light, saved me from a zombie bite, wound me up and made me new, what was I supposed to do, but fall in love with you? Up, down, punch, trigger, how could I ever figure, on a button masher lover like you?”

 

A world of lonely people  
Seven months and 18 days later

The Middleman had nearly rolled out a red carpet for Wendy Watson, and she wouldn't talk to him. They lived together, a frustrating few inches apart all day, every day, but they brushed past each other instead of interacting. She would open her mouth and say things to him, but it was never talking. She didn't listen to his words.

He endured the silence better than the physical withdrawal of affection. She had charmed her way into his life with no effort. He'd barely remembered romance, let alone known how to go about it under the bizarre circumstances of alternate universes and murderous dopplegangers. He had worked very hard to make her feel welcome and cared for in a way she didn't find repulsive.

He had also wished her home so fervently he thought he might teleport her there.

She'd flinched at his name like he'd struck her. She cowered around him as if waiting for another blow, and he was as desperate to fix it as he was helpless to know what she needed. They were stuck with each other and she deserved more than he could give. She'd been kind enough not to mention it, but the rejection was clear.

Inside the strained man she barely glanced at, a wounded animal's rumbling was growing louder.


	12. Chapter 12

In a world where limbo was never fun  
Seven months and 18 days later

 

She had been looking outside for too long. The alternate reality wasn't the psycho version of Earth, or even the crazy notion her double was an evil dictator. The alternate universe was The Middleman.

His name was Eric. She loved that like a child. She held it tightly; worried to lose it from the slightest motion. She couldn't look at him anymore, but she could cradle his name like some kind of religious ecstasy.

He hadn't been trying to push her off an emotional cliff, she thought. He was a believer in boundaries, not like the first Middleman she'd served with. If she had her secrets, he would say she also had her reasons for their protection. He would watch her haul her stuff out of his bedroom once the weather was warmer, never a flicker of upset on his face. He would let her leave if she wanted, no questions about her plans required.

When forced to live a barely human existence, people became mechanical. They lost the nuances of hurt feelings. He shouldn't be able to make her know him so well with so little. His human contact was slutty chicks and Ida. But it didn't make him less of anything. He was a walking open wound, something she was very aware was her fault.

She should have said something nice, even if knowing his name meant nothing. It was a nice name and it fit him as much as any non-Middle name would. It was short but not clipped or biting. It rolled off her tongue when she whispered it to herself. Saying it made her breathless, like she couldn't help gasping the first part. The way her lips moved when she did made it feel like kissing.

One of them needed to start the conversation about how much of a bitch she was, but she wasn't brave enough. He was pissed. He shot faster, punched harder and stole more than they strictly needed. They were going on missions for the bloody-minded stupidity of violence. She didn't complain because for a few hours after he killed some guards and trashed some Fatboy offices he was okay. He watched her back with as much dedication as ever, like a dog with a reluctant bone.

She had been faced with the end of the world on several occasions, but this felt like The End of the World. She didn't even know what to call him anymore. 'Boss' was The Middleman from her world. The Middleman was unkind in it's formality. She started saying his name often, ending up sighing or making weird noises that got his attention anyway.

He didn't curl up next to her in bed. He tossed himself flat on his back and lay there like a corpse. There was no touching in the shower. There was no flirting in the car. He barely spoke to Ida and to her he gave orders and instructions.

If he was giving her time to sort herself out she was having no luck. She had been half in love with her Boss some days, and when she lost him along with everyone else he became precious. Another handsome, square-jawed, surprisingly sensitive man took over pulling her ass from the fire. He pulled her directly into the frying pan with him, but that was her choice to follow. If she ran he would help her.

She couldn't run from a man like that.

She also couldn't commit to giving up all hope of getting back to her friends and family, just because he whispered his first name to her while they were in bed. She could only want it so badly she wept.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy didn't get her magic ride home. He didn't get his partner back. In another world, another Middleman gained a Dubbie.

The blind spot  
Eight months and five days later

 

Wendy dragged her heels into the bedroom, her body sweaty and her heart still racing. She couldn't slow down lately. The missions were great, but they were always shorter than she expected. They didn't feel like they amounted to much energy expended. She slept badly, worked out hard, and avoided her boss-lover-antagonist. The activity didn't help. She was anxious and horny. She was confused about what to do, and very clear it was on her to do something.

Eric was in the attached bathroom, leaning over the sink with water running. His jeans curled low on his hips. She noted how his stomach was pulled in tight, straining. He was in pain.

Her empty stomach flipped and she walked to him quickly, her sneakers soundless on the carpet. She had her hand on his bicep just long enough to feel he was too hot, then he was up and slapping her arm down.

“Sorry!”

“Dubbie, Christ,” he grunted, turning his back on her and jamming a towel over his face. The eye patch was draped over the towel rack, and she realized she'd just glimpsed his whole face for the first time. There were traces of blood on the bottom of the sink, and Wendy pulled him back around. He didn't take the towel all the way off his face, covering his missing eye.

“You're hurt,” she babbled, hooking her fingers in the joint of his arm.

“Been hurt for a while, cupcake. I don't think today is going to be better.”

She cringed and gave him a little space, so he went back to wetting the towel and holding it to his face.

“I meant, you're injured. What can I do?”

The Middleman shook his head and a trickle of blood ran from his nose. He thumbed it away irritably and said, “You don't get to have your eye shoved down your throat without permanent damage. My sinuses get blocked sometimes, or the scar gets infected. If you're lucky you'll get to watch Ida slice into my eye socket and drain pus. Get out of here. You don't need any help not eating.”

So he had seen her struggling, but he wasn't sure what to say to her either. Wendy was oddly reassured. He cared when they were on bad terms, and if they were both trying to find a solution it might happen. She nodded sullenly, and pulled a sweater on over her tank top. The drying sweat was making her cold, and she wasn't going to waste time showering if he wasn't okay.

“Ida,” she yelled, bursting out into the office. “Ida!”

The cougariffic robot arrived with a scowl, her hands full of papers. Since The Middleman had been acting as a Middleman again, there was a few years worth of office work that needed catching up.

“What's the problem, missy? Can't you see I have better things to do than fawn over you,” Ida grumbled.

“Er-The Middleman's eye is hurting him. What do I do?”

With appalling lack of speed, Ida started putting down her bundles of papers, arranging them in some sort of filing system. She nodded with her gaze still on the papers, not particularly interested in the bleeding, agonized man a few rooms away.

“What are you doing?! That can wait,” Wendy pleaded. “This isn't just first aid, I don't know what to do!”

Ida suddenly turned and started to tiptoe down the hallway in her high heels. Trailing behind her was an exercise in frustration. She took full minutes to punch codes into doors, following a series of locked rooms into what looked like a pharmacy.

“My best, most heartfelt advice, sweetness,” the android told her evenly, “You go away. He'll be upset, he'll miss you, but he'll get over it. Hell, if you're a really good little actress he'll believe you got home. That would give him some hope.”

She was pulling out medical trays and sharp things that made Wendy's stomach clench. Her voice wavered as she argued, “You know that's not what I meant.”

A manicured hand stopped dispensing pills and pointed at her face, threateningly. Ida was glaring now, her lipstick smeared on her teeth as she spoke emphatically.

“Do you think he's some saint who dies for every girl he meets? Did you get the impression he answers the door for every lost girl and brings her in to sleep in his bed and fuck in his shower? If he dies, it will be because of you. He doesn't care. You gave him purpose and reason and love. Except it's only one-sided, and he's not getting it back. You're hanging him out by the balls, letting him wait for rejection. Do you understand that rape is a profession in this world? Do you get how lucky you are to have him?! For that matter, do you even really know him, or do you just see something familiar to cling to?”

She wasn't the bimbo Ida insisted she was, and Wendy protested, “I watch his back on missions. I watch his back when he sleeps. I give him what I can.”

Putting the loaded tray into her hands, Ida smiled coldly. Her voice turned into a sweet, sarcastic sing-song.

“Go right ahead, Nurse Wendy. Maybe he'll give you a lollipop.”

Nerves overrode anger, and Wendy followed Ida back to the office. “Wait, is he going to be okay?”

Ida sounded bored as she replied. “This happens. Clean the scar, make him leave it uncovered, give him the pain pills, and don't let him drink. Simple as you are.”

Going back into the quiet bedroom, Wendy started to tiptoe. Her feet slowed down as she approached the bathroom. The door was still open and she sighed. He wouldn't like hovering, but she felt like she should be rubbing his shoulders and making him drinks.

“Ida gave me some pills for you,” she called. “Can I come in?”

“I'm not really in the mood for a fight, cupcake. Come in if your stomach is strong and you're wearing a short nurse's uniform.”

His large frame was slouched on the edge of the bathtub, still holding the towel to his face. His shoulders bunched as he lifted his head slightly. “That's not even a french maid's uniform.”

She put the tray on the shelf next to the sink, soaked another towel, and left the water to run cold. His joke was flat, even for him. He sounded a little stuffed up and muffled, like his sinuses were getting swollen.

“There must be a Middle court-martial somewhere in the archives. I'll look it up for you if the uniform was really an order. Switch.”

He gave up the towel he had for the fresh one, keeping his injured eye covered during the exchange. She filled a cup of water and took out two painkillers.

“I'm going to see it eventually,” Wendy told him plainly. “I won't cry or faint or anything. Ida isn't coming in. She told me to do it. Actually, she told me to get lost and spare you the trouble of being around me, but then she handed me all this . . . stuff.“

He acknowledged the tray of instruments by grabbing the giant tweezers from it and giving a playful jab at her leg. “This is unnecessary. I just need to get the swelling down and take some of these hellish little pills. Ida talks about humans being dramatic.”

The moment was reassuring before he struggled to swallow the medicine and had to keep his mouth open for a minute to take deep breaths. Wendy took the cup back, dumped it into the sink, and knelt down to look at his pale face. He was slightly sweaty.

“I promise no drama if you take the towel down. We sleep in the same bed,” she sighed. “How long did you think I wouldn't see your whole face?”

His head ducked even lower and she could feel him staring at her hand on his leg. Instead of moving it away, Wendy leaned closer. She put her hand on his forearm and felt it tense.

“Okay,” she murmured, “I won't ask again.”

She kept her face as blank as she could, scooting back to give him his space. She couldn't say the rebuff wasn't deserved, but it hurt. She had feelings for him, but the words weren't available yet. She didn't know how to put it in a way that didn't rope him in to more of a relationship than he might want.

The Middleman reached out with both hands, the towel falling to the floor between them. Wendy's hands twitched to go up to his face and hold it, but she made herself stay still.Trust couldn't be rushed or used as a lever to take more than someone wanted to give. A sudden, unexpected amount of her affection would just confuse things until she could explain herself. Middlemen didn't want or need pity, so she smiled at him reassuringly.

“That's not so bad,” she told him. “At the very least I was expecting some oozing tentacle to fly out and grab me. Is it painful on the skin as well?”

His head shook, and the ruined eye was fully in relief against the rest of his face. There was still the basic shape of upper and lower eyelids, no eyelashes left, the skin formed together to protect the empty space underneath. The shrivelled scar was pink and unnaturally smoother than the rest of his skin. It was fresher than she'd expected. Probably when she'd been watching her Middleman champion Sensei Ping, Eric had been selling out the Sensei Ping in his own world.

“The tentacle is lower, and I can assure you it it has never oozed,” he said seriously. “The scar doesn't hurt, it just helps to wipe it over with some rubbing alcohol until the drugs kick in. Was that your first mission?”

She ignored the gloves on the tray, standing up briefly to wash her hands and dry them well. Wendy soaked a cotton ball in alcohol and sat down next to The Middleman. He dropped his shoulder so she could tip his chin toward her.

“That was my try-out,” she told him. “I was working the reception desk and this ass monster blasts through the wall at me. So I grab a letter opener and stab it a few times, but it's doing nothing. The thing was about to eat me when The Middleman showed up. He shot it so I could get free, torched it, then flirted with me as he plotted to charge me with arson. That was my gentle and kind recruitment into the life of Middle.”

She dabbed the cotton at the corner of his missing eye, trying to remain unflinching as the skin twitched. He was breathing evenly, the pain either subsiding or gone. His body was closer to normal heat. Wendy pressed harder, making sure all the folds were cleaned. The sharp scent made her nose itch.

“That looks clean. Do you want anything to eat or a shower?”

He arched his eyebrows, both of them visible for once. “Do I have other options?”

“You're going to bed soon, but food is a reasonable request, and I don't want you to be uncomfortable while you sleep,” she told him. “Food, shower, or right to sleep?”

She looked at the un-used items on the tray, ignoring the ominous metal implements and picking up a jar of eucalyptus gel. He was out of most of his clothes anyway, and the vapours would help his sinuses clear.

“Damn it,” Eric muttered, flinching as she put a dab of cold gel on his throat. “Don't get it all over my chest.”

She moved up, making clear fingerprints on the underside of his jaw. He gave her a little growl as she moved to take out more for under his nose. Wendy closed the jar and set it aside. She looked at his face thoroughly, seeing much less tension and even some humour. His hands hung casually between his knees, and she brushed her chest along them.

“If you tell me what you need I'll get it for you, but I'm no better at guessing than you are. Are you really going to be okay?”

“Just take your shower. How much more does my nose have to take,” he joked. “I'm fine, Dubbie.”

He left the door open when he went out into their bedroom, and she didn't close it behind him. The sexual chemistry arrived quickly, and the trust would take time. As much as she liked the sex, the latter was the prize. She could be The Middleman's partner, but if she wanted to be a girlfriend she needed to make a lot of things up to Eric.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy didn't get her magic ride home. He didn't get his partner back. In another world, another Middleman gained a Dubbie.

A world to lay his head  
Eight months and five days later

Thrice damned and it was only Monday, he smiled to himself bitterly.

Wendy had loved The Middleman in her own world. He knew that now, and the news was mixed. As Eric stepped out of his jeans and got into bed, he listened to his apprentice take off her own clothes. She had smiled with joy to talk about her former partner. Even the underhanded recruitment tactics were good memories. She would die for that man without qualms, but not for him.

Logic dictated the man who deserved her was the one who acted the part, but he didn't like that theory. Her sainted Middleman was the obvious choice in that case. He had never let her down or insulted her. He would never have let her go into a hostile, unknown world alone.

It couldn't even be said Wendy gained anything from learning her surroundings. His world was an obvious nightmare, and no one with half her smarts would want to live there. He wasn't good with anyone, least of all someone who wasn't chased off by his tetchy manners. His competition was some kind of ideal hero guzzling milk and miraculously running into criminals only violent enough to need taking down, not killing. Dubbie had never seen her old boss gun down ten guards per minute.

Objectively, he had to think his only benefit over the other Middleman was her inadvertent presence in his life and his bed.

His eye drooped and he shifted to wake himself up. Wendy would get out of the shower soon. His remaining eye strained to see through the shower curtain and steam. She usually let him get away with voyeurism if he didn't talk while he leered.

She turned off the water and his tiny amount of good sense told him to play up his drowsiness. Wendy glanced at him as she reached for a towel, but she didn't hurry to cover herself. Eric watched as her body disappeared under terry cloth. He studied the way she leaned over the sink to wash her face and brush her teeth.

Her no-nonsense motions aroused him despite the creeping fuzziness in his mind. The pain pills were stronger than necessary, as per Ida's strange need to drug the hell out of him.

Eric was nearly asleep when a fragrant, naked body slid under the blankets with him. She touched his chin gently when he opened his eye.

“Go to sleep,” she whispered, her voice trailing off into a sigh. “Go to sleep so you're not keeping me awake.”

Wendy's left hand ran down the back of his neck, silencing the stupid inner voice telling him they had to talk now – while they were civil. She pressed a light kiss to his mouth he was sure was meaningless. It was too easy for her to time it just shy of lingering.

“Mmm,” Eric mumbled, propping his pillows higher so he could breathe. He drew her closer and leaned his face on her hair.

“Are you feeling better,” she asked, her words puffing on his chest.

“Hundred per cent, doll,” he said easily.

Her hands hesitated as they looked for places to land, one slinking over his shoulder to his back and the other lying on his belly. His cock stirred up toward it and she looked down with a little chuckle.

“Really? You just don't have an off switch, do you?”

He wasn't about to tell her the truth. She thought he was unaccountably horny. He knew his luck was uncanny to have her undeserved company at all, least of all for a long time. He had to save it up.

“I just want to sleep now,” he told her, wincing as he realized he sounded depressed.

Once he lost her, his dreams would be ugly echoes of loneliness and regret. He had to take the good nights and make them last.

Even drugged he was slow to completely relax, but eventually he settled heavier into the pillow and let out a soft snore. His companion took her hand off his front to rub at her eyes. She huddled further under his body and held on tighter, fingers stroking uneasily on his laboured breathing.

 

His head tipped to one side, pushed back by a firm kiss parting his lips and moving away. He recognized heat flickering his belly, desire aching in his cock, tiredness fleeing from his limbs.

“Eric,” Wendy whispered. “This isn't working. You're grinding me in your sleep. Let me get you off.”

He shook his head as she tried to roll him to his back, muttering, “Th's not fair, let me . . . “

His face dragged down her neck, between her breasts, over her abdomen and through her pubic hair, sliding himself until he was kneeling. He threw off the sheet and looked down on her blearily. His big hands pressed her legs open and smoothed them across the bed. He followed the movement, dazed.

“You can stretch so long,” he marvelled.

“And you-” she laughed gently, “-are so stoned.”

His nose dipped into her curls and he drew in the scent of her, enjoying it in an animalistic simplicity. She wanted him, no matter her thoughts about someone else. Her body was happy to lie still under him while he spread her open and slid a finger deep. She stifled a moan, and he tracked the vibration down her thigh to nip at it sharply.

Wendy's knees came up around him like a cage, and Eric slipped his free hand around her leg to press her belly. He flattened the barely present curvature gently, trying to get her g-spot between his two hands. There were other ways, but he didn't want to piss her off putting his fingers somewhere controversial. He didn't even know if they were over the last fight or just taking a time out.

“Oh . . . hell,” she mumbled, twisting her hips and lifting up as he glanced at her face.

She had flipped her chin to the left, her hair messy as she bit her lips bloodless. Eric buzzed his tongue on her clit, and pumped his finger inside her. She shivered, bumping his head back and forth between her legs. He lifted his mouth to catch his breath, taking in a whiff of her indefinably lovely arousal.

“I'm gonna make you so wet,” he promised, and felt the immediate slick of moisture coat his finger. Her whimper sounded a little embarrassed, but she reached for his hair tenderly.

“You're going to smother. Get up here.”

Even clenching, she could fit three fingers, and he pumped them solidly as he ran his beard softly down her pussy. Wendy let go of his hair, fumbling.

“I'm tired, too,” she whispered. “It's been a while. Maybe the condoms are expired?”

“Nah, Fatboy makes them to stop bullets. They don't want to buy any more aerosolized soup than necessary.”

He took his fingers away, crept up to lie on her breasts as he fished in the bedside table for protection. Wendy's hands were roaming his shoulders and down his back, sifting his unruly hair off his neck. She made a noise of vague agreement.

“I guess that's logical. I'm glad you feel better. You're not feverish anymore,” Wendy said warmly. “But I think we should go slowly so your blood pressure doesn't go up too fast.”

She had to be joking – his blood pressure going up too fast was among his favourite effects of having sex. But when she pulled him up to face her, Eric nodded reverently. He pushed up on his knees and elbows, and let her knead and cup his cock before she wrapped him expertly. It wasn't remotely boring to move gradually into the pulse of her body.

Her face stretched starkly over her cheekbones, mouth pulled open as she planted her feet and braced. It was entirely possible women in her universe had evolved just slightly different from the ones of his world, because he would swear she sucked him in with impossible force and delicacy. He fell back on the simplest of techniques. They were nose-to-nose and grazing lips all the time, hips rolling like tiny waves at low tide.

He could believe they were making an ocean.

Minutes of lazy thrusting later, her hold on his back bit into his flesh as her cunt clamped down to jerk out her pleasure. Wendy crushed her open lips on his chin. Her bared teeth were wet as they scrubbed along his beard. Her cheeks were wet when she tipped her head back to gasp for air. Eric kept rhythm as she groped blindly at him.

“Thank you,” she said, breathlessly, cupping his face. Her hands held a little too tight as she leveled their gazes. She looked empty for a moment, then angry. “If anyone tries to hurt you again, I'll stop them. I won't let them do more harm.”

Sensei Ping had been the most dangerous man to ever live, at least of the ones chronicled by Middlemen, but he nodded. He was very sure she meant it, and would find a way somehow to make it true. Her thumb caressed up his jaw, slid over, paused, and then ran over his scar with the weight of a butterfly kiss. She was turning him into such a fool.

“I know.”

Wendy didn't chide him for moving faster as he worked toward his own orgasm. Her hips came to meet him. Her tongue shoved into his mouth to tangle with his so roughly he might end up mumbling nonsense for days. Her smaller body cushioned him on the down swing, her soft breasts stubbornly overwhelming the muscles of his chest. They would not give; she would not give.

He surrendered with a little shout of effort, his weight landing heavily in her arms as she brought all four limbs up around him. Eric spilled into the condom and felt the rest of his self turn rubbery as she helped him hold his shape.

They rested, pulled themselves together, then pulled themselves apart. They cleaned up and crawled into bed practically on top of each other. They didn't speak, though he heard her sniffle a few times. Eric wondered how the sex was so good he felt euphoria rather than terror. She wasn't the key to the kingdom anymore, she was the whole world.

He hid his face in her hair and wondered why he was so foolishly happy.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy didn't get her magic ride home. He didn't get his partner back. In another world, another Middleman gained a Dubbie.

In a practical world of magic  
Eight months and 12 days later

 

Roxy dropped a lump of fabric into her assistant's hands and came to him immediately with her arms out. She actually hugged him, but tipped her dramatically made up face away from his shoulder. The Middleman felt Harold tense as some of the other succubi looked at them. He was in that stage of his training where he'd accepted the many grey areas of the work, but was not comfortable interacting with them.

“MM, darling, how are you,” the designer asked kindly.

She had changed toward him since Wendy's disappearance. What would have been a flirtatious purr less than a year ago was a fond question. They would never be friends, at least not unreservedly so, but Roxy had consoled him several times with genuine sympathy. The Middleman suspected she had liked Wendy, though she would never own up to liking an apprentice.

“I'm doing okay, Rox,” he replied. “Keeping busy - with Harold's help I got rid of a swamp thing a few days ago. Eight feet tall and he didn't hesitate for a moment.”

Normally The Middleman did not boast, especially since the missions were confidential. Harold deserved praise and it seemed to help him maintain composure to know his boss was confident in his abilities. The personal relationship between them was not as stable as was desired, but Harold was no Dubbie. The Middleman had unsuccessfully tried to think of a nickname for him. He had unconsciously built walls to consecrate part of his affection for her; otherwise the guilt would kill him.

Roxy was trustworthy to hear the general information, as well as being a long-lived and astute mystical being. She had told him she couldn't take his soul even if she wanted to, since it had gone through the rift with Wendy. The hyperbole suited him fine.

“Congratulations,” she said, nose wrinkling with distaste for the stinky, damp monsters. She let go and moved in front of Harold, whose eyes widened.

“And congratulations to you, Apprentice,” Roxy said flirtatiously. “You know, this uniform is hideous, as I've often noted, but there's something about the way you fill it out that makes me a little lenient. You take care of that pretty face, won't you. And watch out for your boss, too. He buys me flowers on my birthday. I like peonies.”

Dipping one arm as she turned, the succubus flashed some extra cleavage, twinkled at the flushed young man, and turned to take The Middleman's arm. They walked toward her office, and he called back to Harold.

“As long as we're here you can get measured for your toga. I'll be out in a few minutes.”

They ignored a yelp as two very attractive women whipped out measuring tapes and went to town on the startled young man. Roxy waved her assistant away, and shut the door behind them. She gestured to a chair. The Middleman sat down, only to shift right to the edge of the cushion and lean forward.

“Your research is complete?”

The coiffed blond sighed as she sat behind the desk. “MM, dear, I don't have her in a drawer. This is a work in progress, and a rather unique one at that. I can't tell you if it will work, but I can tell you what does and see if we can make something of it that's useful. I am happy to help, but I can't guarantee any results,” she told him.

He nodded. After the first setbacks finding information in the Middle archive, Roxy had been his next best source of intel. Unfortunately, the two methodologies were unlikely to mesh in a simple way, and she had a report ready for him to study.

“Frankly, we might be getting into virgin territory where some of your shiny ray guns and such combine with spells and counter oracles to crack into the other world. I only know about one, so the other will be up to you to . . . “ Her hands juggled air in a vague hammering gesture. “ . . . cobble? By the way, Ida is being a bear about sharing information. I asked her if you had one little nuclear warhead and she wouldn't tell me a thing after that.”

“Ida is programmed for secrecy, but I'll look into it,” The Middleman promised. “Thank you, Roxy. A little warning for you, though; if you keep flirting with Harold he might get the courage up to ask you out. It would serve you right if he did.”

Her red lips parted with actual surprise, and the succubus made a show of digging around for the thick file to give him. She stood up and flicked her hair off her neck with a grin.

“MM, your new hire is a fine,” she paused. “Is human appropriate? I can never keep up with politically correct terms.”

“I don't have a problem with man.”

The inccubi tended to be rather sylphlike, skinny and slightly short compared to the model thin and lanky succubi. Harold's five foot nine frame was a little too bulky for that, but he thought Roxy might actually find him a little attractive.

“He's a pretty man, but he's not going to last that long, and I'm a busy woman. Maybe you could mention to him it's not appropos to proposition me, and I can continue to brighten his day?”

It was his job to protect Harold, so he would give the warning. There was just a small hint of regret he was never going to get the phone call from Roxy Wasserman telling him his apprentice's hormones were out of control.

“I will speak to him. Is succubus an offensive term?”

Roxy put her hand to her hip and tipped her chin fetchingly. “It's not incorrect, but reformed succubus is a mouthful. We're throwing around ideas for a human-friendly version but the best we've had is nonccubi. It sounds like a fish entree.”

The Middleman took the heavy file from her, and squeezed her hand gently. “Thank you.”

Her mouth relaxed into a real grin, souring to sadness. “Ida says I'm killing you with kindness,” she remarked. “You understand this is a long road you're choosing. Maybe endless.”

It was endless anyway, but he nodded. “It's fine, Roxy. Have a good day.”

“Bye bye. I won't come with you, it would enflame Harold,” she smirked.

Harold fell in behind him with palpable relief, and they left the building with something more than they'd had before they'd entered.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy didn't get her magic ride home. He didn't get his partner back. In another world, another Middleman gained a Dubbie.

If home were a stripper den  
Eight months and 18 days later

The Middleman was standing just inside the door as Wendy turned her key. She didn't like to enter through the front office if she had a choice. Ida's disapproval had only increased when she saw Middleman and apprentice had made up. Being alone with her was awkward for no particular reason, since neither of them seemed able to say or do anything in each others presence without a certain eye-patched gentleman around. He was either oblivious or unaffected, but he was rather serious when he pulled her through the door, slammed it, and pressed her back to it with his hands under her shirt.

All the cameras in this place, Cybernanny could have literally watched us in progress, Wendy mused uncomfortably. Or right now. Creepy.

“Hi,” she whispered. “Do you want to go to the bedroom before we get told off?”

His shaggy hair was over his face, and she lowered her backpack to the floor gently. Lacey had wanted to go shopping at the black market, and it was safer for her friend not to be seen with anyone in uniform. Wendy had worn jeans and a couple of sweaters, her tall boots loaded with weapons. She hadn't had any trouble, but now she was worried it might have been sitting at home waiting for her.

“Hey, did something happen?”

She tried to put her arms around him and he shrugged her off rudely. His chest pressed her flat as he dragged the first sweater over her head. It was one of his from the very back of the closet, and he paused before throwing it down. The second sweater had a layer of fleece on the inside, so when he took it off her static made her hair float off her neck. Wendy's arms flopped to her sides. She didn't even move them to protest when he caught her ears in the smaller t-shirt that made up her last layer. His eye narrowed when he saw she wasn't wearing a bra.

“Don't look at me like that,” she snapped uneasily. “I was with Lacey. We shopped.”

He jammed her face to his shoulder, and Wendy was abruptly caught up in the smell of his neck. Leathered, musky, but not perfumed, he just smelled fantastic. She tried to hug him again, and he stopped the systematic fondling of her loose hair to push her wrist down. Her heart leapt when he took off the Middle watch. He turned the device all around, stretched the band, and returned it to her just a moment before she was going to give in to tears.

Her Boss had given her the watch, and knowing it was the same watch all other Middlemen and apprentices received didn't make it less special. It was an original from her very first day on the job. Tyler's diamonds were worthless next to it. Wendy's hand came up to cup it protectively, but her new Middleman was finished with her upper body.

He kicked her feet from where they'd huddled together anxiously. The belt she'd borrowed slipped through her jeans far too easily, and her throat ached to make a noise to bring Ida there to end whatever he was doing. She trusted him, as much as trust could exist in his world. It wasn't the same with her own Middleman. She couldn't get on his wavelength.

Hearing sun-baked Ida's opinion of her nipples was also a factor. She had three shirts when she arrived, and all three had been thrown out of reach.

Running the belt between his palms, The Middleman was making a slow, deep whuh-whuh-whuh whistling she found vaguely threatening. Knowing he wasn't going to hit her with it didn't help when he dropped it buckle first and went for the button of her jeans.

“I don't – I don't want to do this,” she mumbled. Now it was her own force and weight pressing her bare back to the door so tightly it hurt.

“Did someone touch you?”

If she ever moved him to jealousy, Wendy thought it would be of the cold, ultimatum variety. 'Me or him,' 'here and now or then and gone' but not an insulting search of her person. She could make him back down, but she really, really didn't want to resort to striking him. She didn't want to hurt his feelings, but he had to know he was being a jerk.

“Was I dressed to have someone touching me? Have you been helped,” she sneered. “I was going around in your sweater, smelling like you, looking very taken. That's what the boyfriend sweater does.”

He popped the fastener of her pants and slipped fingertips behind the fabric. The not-unfamiliar touch turned odd as he circled her hips blindly, inching his fingerprints along. It was nearly medical. Wendy watched his mouth twist in a tiny smile.

“Boyfriend sweater?”

The edge of her panties flicked the small of her back, and she took a step forward without thinking. Eric gave her a little pat before he unzipped her jeans.

“I'm your boyfriend,” he asked, ignoring her hands as she tried to close her pants.

“Well, not . . . I don't – Really! Want to talk about it naked in the hall,” she complained, increasingly unnerved by the fluctuations of seriousness and amusement.

He had given up on her jeans and was pulling her weapons from the nearly knee-high boots. Post-apocalyptic fashion being rather random, Wendy was finally able to comfortably borrow and wear Lacey's skank clothes. As a bonus, the cuffs of the boots concealed her Middle gun, a folding knife, a taser, and a pair of brass knuckles she'd picked up on a violent whim. As he yanked each weapon free, Eric pressed it into her arms crossed over her breasts. It was astonishing how unsettling it felt to have gun metal on a bare nipple.

She balanced on one foot as The Middleman shimmied each boot down and off, tossing them away with her clothes. He stood up and looked down into her eyes with mild concern.

“Someone touched you, and they tagged you with nanobots. You're going to go straight to the decon shower and wash, then stand under the ultraviolet lamps for twenty seconds,” he told her. He peeled her jeans down and glanced at her panties with a little nod. “Then we're going to go see Lacey and her boyfriend and make sure they're okay.”

Wendy repeated the awkward balancing act to step out of her jeans. She let him take her weapons and stow them down his own pants. Once he looked like a death-studded Chippendale, he hugged her quickly. She was afraid of setting off one of the guns, so she kept her arms up over her chest.

“What are we going to tell Lacey and Noser,” she murmured, tipping her face back to kiss him. “I don't want to scare her.”

“We're going to tell them we're there for lunch, or dinner, or brunch if we have to. I'm your boyfriend, aren't I? I'll get to know your friends.”

He pinched her ass, pushed her away, and gathered up her clothes. Wendy looked down at her nudity and sighed, “Are you going to wash those or burn them?”

“I'm gonna vaporize them, cupcake. Sorry.” He shrugged, moved his knee to bring her attention to his leather pants, and said, “You don't need the sweater with the boyfriend around. Don't worry, I have to burn my clothes, too. Don't get mad at me yet – I still have to keep you talking half the night to figure out who tagged you.”

She made a face, just to show him he wasn't going to have an easy time of his interrogation, then turned and headed to the shower. The sour face had given way to a lovestruck smile long before she turned on the water.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy didn't get her magic ride home. He didn't get his partner back. In another world, another Middleman gained a Dubbie.

In an ungrateful world  
Eight months and 18 days later

The Middleman watched Harold put a book down, steel himself and pick up another thick volume. It was late, the coffee was stale, and Ida had made her last offer of food before heading off to putter around in her personal time. There was work to be done, but it wasn't as urgent as an all-nighter. There was duty and there was obsession, and he was the first to admit he had trouble keeping the two separate.

“Harold,” he interrupted gently. “You're done for the day. Get some sleep and I'll get in touch with you tomorrow.”

The young man's shiny nose glittered as he rubbed his face wearily, but to his credit the apprentice didn't close his book. He fixed The Middleman with a hard look. He knew Ida thought most of the apprentices weren't that bright, but both Dubbie and Harold were capable of intuition far beyond their experience.

“But you're not done for the day,” Harold said conclusively. “You'll work half the night and be up by seven. You might call me in by two or so? That leaves a whole lot of work getting done without any assisting from me. I promise to keep my mouth shut if you want to fire me. I respect what you do here and I know you need secrecy.”

Surprised by the back-talk, The Middleman wasn't particularly offended. He had told Harold a Middleman was observant, and it was a thousand times milder than the dressings down Wendy had delivered.

“I'm not going to fire you, Harold,” he reassured. “Sometimes I prefer to work alone. Please don't take offense.”

Stamping a little, the apprentice shook his head as he piled the books. He frowned as he tipped back the last of a coffee. Once he'd vented, Harold sat back and sighed.

“I know there's a top secret mission you don't want me working on. I hear Ida . . . talking to you about it.”

Talking was a polite term for the nagging Ida inflicted on him, The Middleman thought. He tried to be firm with the android. It was an honest trait of her personality that she cared in an acerbic manner. Harold would certainly show concern, as would Wendy's friends. Finding Dubbie felt private, like something only he could accomplish.

“I don't expect help with my personal mission. It wouldn't be fair to ask you for that, and you'll be needed if something happens to me. You deserve to know the reason why you'll have to step up. Why don't we go get some food?”

 

En route to the dancing girls  
Eight months and 18 days later

The Middleman had to keep telling himself his apprentice was tougher than she looked, because trouble kept finding her when she was away from him.

Ida insisted on a rough extraction of Wendy's blood before she let the couple leave the locker room. HEAL pronounced an all clear for any biohazards.The fried nanobots they'd kept for testing were purely mechanical, so it was as impossible for them to find shelter inside Wendy's body as it would have been for The Middleman to wait out a two week quarantine outside her body.

The android had not been effusive when she gave the results, but at least she left it alone. He hadn't been able to delay thirty seconds to strip off Dubbie's contaminated clothing in the locker room. She had been crawling with bugs, unaware of her danger or the danger to headquarters. He'd been panicking. Eric hadn't meant to frighten her, but she was going to be fine. If Ida wanted to needle him for his reaction, he supposed it was within her rights. He didn't dance for warm approval or cookies. He was a rational man who had emotional moments.

He'd never been so offended in his life as when he realized someone was trying to use his bright, determined partner to hurt him. It flipped reality inside out. She helped and encouraged him; taking his shit and giving back an equal dose of attitude. It was the last sacred thing left.

By the time he'd bonfired the clothing, Wendy was gratefully waiting for him to take his own shower. She took his eyepatch and scrubbed the leather with detergent and then mink oil. When she'd returned it, the thing was better than new. They submitted to Ida for quick check-ups, his much more professional than the treatment his lover received.

“Ya know, Junkie, if you lie down with dogs you'll always wake up with fleas,” Ida said caustically. “Just a little free advice.”

“It's not your business, but I'm a serial monogamist, Snark-bot. Unless you've been sneaking a bunch of chicks in to bang your boss, I'm a one-man woman,” Wendy replied coolly. “And he's a one-woman man, so there's no parasite here but you.”

Eric had dressed beside her, listening to her invite herself over to Lacey's home with such charm and vivacity the blond would never realize it hadn't been her idea. The club wasn't open, so it would be a reasonably private double date. He tried to think of the last date he'd arranged and came up empty.

He protected her too much. They should talk more about what it was like for regular citizens of Fatboy. She should know how expensive and rare quality food was, and how dangerous to deal with the merchants who brought it into the city. He should be putting more emergency cash away, instead of spending it on groceries he'd usually done without. There was something so dirty and mean-spirited about letting her suffer, though. Wendy suffered a great deal when she lost her world. Letting her know the world she was left with was absolutely irredeemable seemed pointlessly cruel.

He wouldn't let her take out the garbage, and she didn't know it was because he'd found three corpses in the dumpster just that winter. She might have lived in a low-rent, artsy neighbourhood, but she didn't have the shellshock of a slum kid. She was hopeful and he needed that. She wasn't reckless, he'd told himself, so if she was just a little naive it was okay.

Except she hadn't known anything was happening when she'd been tagged. He'd given no warning and she had been looking out for the creeps and perverts of the market. Nanotechnology was expensive but it wasn't out of reach for Wendy Watson's corporation. Two pretty young women on foot were a target, but not for ultra-high-tech espionage.

Once they were in the car, he cleared his throat and said, “I haven't given you all the gory details about this world. I'd hoped you could stay off the big hit lists and you wouldn't need to know. That was my error.”

She touched his wrist gently. “You couldn't know all this. Predicting half of it a year ago would have made Ida restrain you for brain probes,” Wendy excused him kindly. “But I've wondered . . . “

He changed lanes and slowed on the narrower street. Children and animals roamed around, largely unattended by anyone. Junked cars sat next to functional ones, all of them looking dangerous for extended trips. It was the modern version of an affluent suburb. You could tell because there were houses instead of shacks.

“Why aren't there any extra- or juxta-terrestrial threats anymore,” she asked. “I mean, do we just ignore that stuff or did they decide they don't need to destroy the Earth?”

Cupcake wasn't nasty to him, but he had to admit her observational skills went right for his shameful secrets. In one question, she had used his candor to cut him belly to neck. She rode his tension like a surfer did waves, and Wendy knew the corners of his mind that were sorest.

“Fatboy claimed the atmosphere and put up an energy barrier. Light passes through, but nothing else can. It's the reason why we can't see the sun.”

There. Factual and informative, an excellent evasion for him, but good enough for her to use as general knowledge. He had been keeping back quite a bit, and she didn't need it recited all at once like a courtroom drama. She would ask smart questions and he wouldn't lie outright. He just didn't know how to phrase some of his confessions.

“Can – can they do that? They can't really own the sky.”

His mouth twisted. He should have been the one to stop them. Even if there was no real way, he felt it like a failure. Her Middleman would have pulled off a victory in the eleventh hour.

“I tried, cupcake, the night she killed Tyler. After that, it was like throwing pebbles at a tank. I flinched.”

Eric parked the car, his hands glued to the steering wheel. Wendy was putting on another coat of lipstick. The colour seemed to drain into her face like the bad news made even that pale. She leaned over and kissed his mouth sharply, her teeth grazing his lip. She didn't linger in her seat once she pulled back.

Wendy wasn't the only one who needed things explained.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy didn't get her magic ride home. He didn't get his partner back. In another world, another Middleman gained a Dubbie.

The Rendezvous Point  
Eight months and 18 days later

The Middleman was happy to see there were tables open. He didn't like to sit at the counter anymore, and it wasn't the best idea when discussing secrets. He gestured to a seat and the apprentice slid in without commentary.

When Harold had first been hired, The Middleman had mistaken his silence for nothing to say. After a few months he realized he rarely spoke out loud to the younger man. It was an accident to have created a repressive environment, and he had tried to correct it later, but Harold fell back on utter silence when he didn't know what to say. The military wasn't the place for a lot of conversation, but The Middleman knew he wasn't a commanding officer anymore. Having someone to whom he could speak about his work was a relief once he let himself accept Harold.

“We'll order first,” he said. “It's on me. You did well today.”

The two menus tucked behind the napkin holder were opened and perused, then replaced to signal the waitress. She flounced over in low-cut jeans and a crop top, a tiny apron wrapped lower than her belly button. The Middleman kept his eyes on her face as he asked for a large milk and a short stack with maple syrup. Harold glanced at her retreating figure after ordering a turkey on whole wheat and a coffee.

“Sorry,” Harold blushed, shifting uneasily in his seat.

“You don't have to be sorry. She's about your age, and she's not wearing a ring. She's a much better prospect than a certain fashion house owner,” his boss replied. “I'm not looking because I'm not available. You don't have anything holding you back, as long as you're respectful.”

Clearing his throat, Harold looked down and mumbled a thank you as the waitress brought their drinks. She smiled at both men, and The Middleman smiled back politely. “Thank you.”

“I have to tell you, Boss, it's hard being around your degree of wholesomeness. I feel like a pervert for drinking coffee after noon. The permission,” he grimaced, “It doesn't really help when you're all duty.”

Perhaps the apprentice was having the same trouble keeping duty distinct from obsession. The Middleman frowned, feeling badly about that. He honestly didn't want to put more on the new hire than would help him learn, but his actions and the office tensions were too much to keep quiet.

“I'm not perfect, Harold,” The Middleman said firmly. “I'm not even as good at the job as I was a few years ago. I do my best, but I'm human. And sometimes I'm . . . distracted or worn out.”

It had happened, whether or not the lapses were large enough to be noticed. At least three missions had been a little more hazardous because his mind had wandered to Wendy. He'd recovered and corrected quickly, but it was a problem. He didn't want to lose another apprentice. It would be a terrible disrespect to Dubbie if her absence caused Harold's death. The Middleman could do the job, but he wasn't so sure of himself that he would mark his tenure in decades anymore. If he was failing in small ways, he had to acknowledge the potential for bigger failures.

“You're amazing! No one else could do the job,” Harold protested. “I could never do it!”

The food arrived, and it was a few minutes before they were alone. The Middleman tried his pancakes and nodded in approval. It was a good restaurant but he didn't like going there alone. He ate nothing and stared at the stools where he and Dubbie sat on Training Day.

“I would never have hired you if I didn't believe you could be The Middleman, Harold,” he said. “If you doubt everything else I say, please know I don't set anyone up to fail or be killed. I have every intention of training you well and giving you as much support as I can.”

Sandwich abandoned, Harold sighed. “I'm sensing a but coming.”

Eye contact was impossible. The Middleman huddled down and picked at the edge of the table. He wrapped a hand around his milk and held on tightly.

“My apprentice before you was Wendy Watson. She's your age, a painter, and the only child of an Air Force widow. She was pulled into a rift to an alternate universe. She was a very competent apprentice, and she survived at least a few days in a corporate dictatorship. Wendy enlisted the help of The Middleman in that universe – though everything as it was described to me suggested it was an evil, violent world. We attempted a rescue effort, but it was timed on a rare cosmological event. The next of those is over a century away and the only form of communication is gone.”

Silence slipped by with low conversation from other tables, and the flickering of channels changing on the television mounted above the counter. He picked his milk up and took a tiny sip. Harold leaned back and nodded, his face pale.

“Do you think she's still alive?”

It stung, even as it was a predictable question. “The odds are slim, so I've told her loved ones she is dead. I don't know one way or the other. If I knew she was dead, I'd find a way to cope or I'd step down,” he paused, swallowing another sip of milk. “I feel - I believe she is alive. I think I'm her only chance to come home.”

Harold had every right to be slighted. Any of the other apprentices were replacing permanently lost sidekicks. He had the honour of being a literal second stringer. In all fairness, The Middleman wasn't going to bring Dubbie home just to tell her she didn't have a job. If she made it back, and they were both capable of doing the work, she would be his apprentice. Harold would have to understand.

“Excuse me, miss?” The apprentice had waved the waitress back and picked up the plate of pancakes. “Can you give those a quick nuking? We got caught up talking and they've gone cold.”

He folded his hands on the table, met The Middleman's eyes and nodded. “So we finish up here, get some sleep and I'll meet you in the archives at o'six hundred tomorrow. I have to get up to speed on interdimensional portals.”

Modestly and with great understanding, Harold became a real ally. The Middleman felt the cold in his stomach seep away and he took a bite of the reheated pancakes.

“Thank you, Harold.”

 

Not quite home  
Eight months and 18 days later

The tacky couch was empty and the velvet rope was pushed to the side, but Action Noser still appeared in the doorway with a shotgun in his hands. He held it vaguely like a guitar, and Wendy had to wonder if he'd started out working on a concept album before he turned to guarding strippers.

“Wind up the toy soldier and he'd raise his whip and say to her,” Noser demanded.

“On your knees, Little Sadie.”

Wendy looked at The Middleman with a mixture of horror and glee. It was arguably classic rock, but not what she'd expect him to know. They had a basically vanilla sex life, if only because they got their violence rocks off during missions. Once they got to HQ and let themselves unclench, it was nice to be able to relax. Ratcheting up the tension levels came easily enough every other part of their daily lives.

“Noser! We were expecting them,” Lacey scolded, coming to the door with a dish towel to flick him. He glanced at her with an expression that spoke of both apology and resolve. It was the strippers' day off, but he didn't give himself the same privilege. He was on patrol as long as his girlfriend was in the building.

He probably feels worse when she's not here, Wendy thought sadly. She was a free spirit, even in Fatboy's empire. Holding Lacey back was wrong, but worrying about her all the time was hard to avoid. Noser still didn't approve of the Wendy/Lacey shopping expeditions, and Wendy suspected she was the major objection.

Stepping around her sentry, the blond hugged Wendy and moved in front of Eric. She nodded politely and offered her hand. For the first time in a while, the apprentice thought about how social situations changed with your job. Lacey presented herself cautiously because she knew men might see her as fair game, an object they could have if they paid. But she grinned irrepressibly when The Middleman shook her hand firmly, not a glimmer of lust on his face.

“Hello, Miss Thornfield, Mr. Noser,” he said. “Thank you for having us over.”

The younger man nodded sternly, but he was leaning his gun against the door and moving forward for a handshake. Lacey took Wendy's gift of wine, and grabbed her hand to lead her into the loft. Eric produced a bottle of 30 year old scotch and handed it to Noser.

“Fatbaron Special Reserve, very nice,” the bouncer remarked. “We have real bumpy streets around here, too. Makes it easy to find some pretty good stuff just where it falls.”

Eric nodded, but he tried not to find too many items fallen off the back of trucks. Loss prevention was a growing branch of Fatboy, and he didn't want to expose Wendy through petty crime. Other than the raids on labs and factories, he was nearly a model citizen. Wendy's fake ID, Penny Alvarez, had never gone awry of the law. If she could slip away and get to the emergency cash she would be fine. One good thing about looking like your evil dictator was that she also looked like she had a legitimate purpose to be on Fatboy property. She had talked her way past more than one guard, wearing the shark-like glare of her double. It didn't work for long, but it got them a foot in the door.

The girls had set the table and were dishing up casserole with a rich, meaty aroma. Eric was glad he hadn't skimped on the gift. If they had blown the weekly food budget on one night, the scotch could sell for $12 piggies a shot. He wanted to divert the corrupt Fatboy officials getting bribes to ignore Lacey's club, but that would only make them more of a target. He wasn't about to deny Wendy her only friend, but he had to minimize the connections that could get them in trouble.

“And you can take that chair,” Lacey told him happily. She poured a glass of wine and patted his shoulder when he sat obediently. Eric caught Wendy grinning at him. She also enjoyed it when Ida bullied him.

Thanks to Wendy, he had something of a normal social life. She brought movies and books home, since they weren't free to go out together very often. While they were laying low after a high risk mission – though none of the missions were routine – Wendy curled up on the sofa next to him, her head on his shoulder. She fell asleep sometimes, softly warming one of his arms until he gave in to lie down with her draped over his chest.

Noser ate his dinner with typical Noser enthusiasm, his bottomless stomach a universal Noser trait. Wendy had discreetly scanned Lacey up and down with the Middle watch. Ida sent a text message a few minutes later saying no nanobots were detected. It confirmed which of them was the surveillance target. She had known that, and didn't let it ruin dinner. It might be the last time she was able to leave HQ for a long time. Boss was getting his paranoid face on. He ate and made small talk, but his sips of wine were tiny. He was worried about getting them home before curfew.

“We'll get the dishes,” Noser offered, as Wendy and Lacey stood up to grab empty plates. He poured the last of the wine into their glasses. “Go up to the balcony and relax.”

The apprentice watched as Eric slid to his feet silently. He went over to the kitchen and started water running. The Middleman – both her Middlemen – kept a clean house. She knew he could fetch and carry just as well as she could, and with less bitching than Ida. There was an unbearable poignancy in seeing him shoulder to shoulder with Noser, being a gentleman. They'd had a dinner party, without monsters of any kind breaking it up. In her own world, things would run just the same. Lacey would cook, she would keep her company, and the guys would do the dishes.

“Come on, Dub-Dub, I'll show you the view,” Lacey said, pulling her toward the stairs.

Wendy clanked up behind her, finding a very Noser-ish collection of albums where she'd had a bookshelf full of art supplies. The clothing hanging on the line over the balcony was distinctly strippery. The unmade bed had a knotted pile of nightie, boxer shorts and t-shirt. The club downstairs was less offensive in proper light, cleared of dancers and customers, but this was home for Noser and Lacey. They lived here. Any resentment over her space fled as Wendy realized it didn't make her homesick. She lived somewhere else.

“Lace, dinner was wonderful,” Wendy told her. “Thank you for having us over.”

One foot out the window, Lacey squinted back at her. “You have a tone I don't like. Kind of a 'goodbye forever' thing. I don't care if you run off to a tropical locale with Mr. Package Hugging Pants, as long as you're happy, but you are under friendship contract to write and call often.”

“It's not like that,” she replied automatically. “Today at the market, somebody spotted me, but I missed them. My boss has threatened everyone in that place, which means whoever it was is pretty scary. I'm eternally grateful they left us alone, but I'm going to be under house arrest for a while. It's best if you don't go anywhere alone.”

The blond kept moving, her body stiffening from more than a chill as she stepped outside. Wendy handed out a blanket and her wine glass, following her friend. Lacey yanked the zip of her sweater to the top, and brushed off the lawn chairs. She gulped her wine before pointing at Wendy.

“He'd better keep you safe,” she proclaimed. “I don't care if he's all big and thickly muscled. I'll kick his ass!”

“He wouldn't let anyone hurt me. He loves me.”

The very honest opinion in her own voice blew her away. Lacey sat down and dragged the other chair around to face her. “Whoa. You sound really sure about that. Does he say he loves you,” she asked. “Because if you hadn't noticed, he pretty much only speaks in full sentences to you.”

“Neither of us says it,” Wendy hedged. She sat down and drank some wine. It didn't help. “He has no verbal response to anything, really. But he's a man of action, so he acts like it. He's really good to me – he just doesn't like to have anyone else looking when it happens.”

A perky little smile drove her to throw the blanket over Lacey's head. “Awwww, you guys are so cute and junior high.”

Fixing her eyes out over the city, Wendy counted the differences she could see from the view of her own bedroom. When she reached fifty, she looked away. Her friend was staring.

“What's up, Dub-dub? You weren't worried before, but now you are.”

“I think he feels like putting a name on it gives him something to lose, and I want to reassure him, but I still want to go home,” she said faintly. “I don't know what I would need to stop wanting to go back.”

Lacey twitched the blanket she had tossed over their laps. “Do you . . . have a way to go home?”

Shaking her head, she admitted to herself that she hadn't been trying to get away from Eric for a long time. If ever a Middleman needed help, it was in this world. They did good work, and he was positive about life again. She was reasonably content. She rolled with the punches and he saved her ass. In her own world, she was sure her Middleman was looking for her and planning a rescue mission. She wondered who he'd found to watch his back. He would have more potential apprentices than Eric could find in a world perpetuated by Fatboy propaganda. He could do without her.

“Do you ever feel like you're changing without your permission,” she asked Lacey. “Seven months ago I was showering with this strange, silent guy who I thought might be jerking off to me. Now I'm his girlfriend and half of a revolution. I think if I did get home he wouldn't survive the year, and that makes my options disappear, doesn't it?”

She'd loved her old boss, adored him in a not-quite-familial, but not lustful way. He was attractive, but their dynamic wasn't sexual. They might have gotten there eventually, but it would have been a slow rise of passion. She loved Eric, and she could survive his world. When he touched her, she blazed. But she couldn't choose sex over the man who had found who she really was and made her the offer of a lifetime.

“You have to make your own decisions, Wendy,” Lacey murmured sympathetically. “You deserve to be happy, though, I believe that in every possible reality. What everyone else does after you decide is their problem. I'm going to get us more wine. I need it whenever you talk about rifts in dimensions.”

 

Eric and Noser had bonded over home security, and the latter had pulled out the toolbox. The taller man was tinkering with the motion sensors, demonstrating how to calibrate them to be more sensitive. Wendy's friend slipped past them to the kitchen, interrupted for Noser to open a new bottle of wine, and went upstairs with a quick smile.

“You're lucky,” Eric told him, receiving a measuring look before getting a nod.

“I'm nervous, man. I don't want her living every day afraid, but we invite perverts with ready cash into our home. That's gonna sweep too low to the floor, I think. We have mice,” he replied.

The former factory was a solid building, but it wasn't in a good part of the city. Landlords could abuse their tenants without any legal implications. Fatboy policing of human rights was minimal and largely ironic.

“I have some names if you need to move house,” The Middleman offered.

“Nah, the landlord is cool. He went to school with Lacey, and he's a priest – a real man of faith. He inherited the building from his father. He doesn't have the money to keep it nice, but Father Pip works on what he can. Keeps the floors up and the elevator working at least.”

Noser leaned in and secured a screw that was wobbling out from the wall. He glanced upstairs.

“How's Wendy Watson? She seems under pressure.”

Eric hated that her unhappiness was obvious to other people. It felt like failure enough when only he saw Wendy bite back sorrow and worry. He didn't want to become one of those men who valued pretense more than reality, but it was draining to know she was enduring her life instead of living it as she should. He didn't know how to send her home or he would have done it already. He worked them hard because she seemed to take comfort in being useful.

“Ups and downs,” he said gruffly. “I don't think she's happy but I don't have a solution. I just keep going.”

“They help each other,” the bouncer pointed upstairs. “It's a different world for both of them than it is for us. The garment workers aren't treated well. Women don't go to the police unless they're desperate. They shouldn't have to be this tough.”

Most of the unemployed were undesirables Fatboy wouldn't hire. Noser could probably bluff his way through the interview, but he had an air of philosophical consideration that wouldn't serve him well as a lackey. Once he was in the system, Fatboy would look at his life and associates. Lacey would lose her income and could be sent back to the work camp. The overthrow had rendered careers an obsolete concept. People scraped by, or they sold out.

Noser's dull expression lifted in forced recovery. “Let's try that scotch,” he suggested. “Give the ladies a few more minutes.”

 

The Middleman returned home with a red-cheeked, giggly Dubbie, her drunk footfalls clattering her into walls. He pulled her back to his chest, held her hips and steered her like a shopping cart. If she was slightly more sober she might be offended. He by-passed Ida in the hallway. Her snarky gleam didn't go unnoticed by the intoxicated apprentice.

“Ida hates me, you know. She thinks I suck,” Wendy proclaimed. “And I might just do exactly that. I might suck. Cause I'm trouble. You know I'm trouble, right? And that Ida is right? Right?!”

“I heard you the first time, cupcake,” he told her. “Don't lock your knees.”

He wouldn't trade her for a platinum Fatboy corporate card, but Eric knew better than to say so. He gathered her closer to negotiate the doorway to the bedroom. She had her shirt unbuttoned. He let her lean forward and strip it off. The purple bra underneath had twisted, and he opened the clasp. She slid away, topless, and leaped onto the bed with haphazard grace.

“I'm sorry I'm trouble,” she told him sincerely. “I'm sorry I fell from the sky and screwed up your whole deal. I didn't mean to end up here.”

Her eyes were dewy and he didn't want her to cry, so he steered her away from that minefield.

“You're not much trouble. If I didn't like you I'd kick you out. I'd come see you at Lacey's, pay you for a private dance,” he joked.

“I tried on a stripper outfit,” Wendy sighed. “I don't have the boobs for it. I'd have to learn how to cook the hasenpfeffer.”

That explained the twisted bra, he supposed. Both young women were less than sober by the time he called Wendy so they could leave. She wiggled her jeans down and kicked until he pulled them over her feet. Eric took off her glasses before she broke them, and reached for her t-shirt.

“I don't need that. I'm hot. Are you coming to bed, too?”

Her legs bent and shifted in a complicated routine that let her take off the panties without having to pick herself up from her sprawl. She dangled them from her toes and dropped them off the bed. Drunk Wendy signals weren't the most subtle come-ons he'd ever seen.

“I am, but I think you drank a bit too much to wait up for me. Why don't you close your eyes and sleep,” he asked.

She turned to her side, watching as he took off his clothes. She walked her fingers to the edge of the bed and grazed his bare leg with her nails.

“You never call me by my name,” she said quizzically.

“You never call me by my name,” Eric replied, resenting it as much as he always had. He wasn't in the mood for a fight, though. She was at the end of a hard day and he was tired of being scared for her. They both needed to feel better before he could make it feel worse.

“I never know if I'm allowed.” Her hand pressed flat to his leg, drifted to his knee, paused and traced a scar from a wound long forgotten.

He took her hand and brought it gently in to tuck under her chin. Her knees bent automatically and dark brown eyes fluttered with tiredness. Kneeling, he rubbed her back while she held his fingers.

“You're allowed, just not in public, especially in front of Rick.”

She grinned, remembering the ingratiating banter the merchant always attempted with him. “His man crush is getting a little embarrassing. I might have to fight him for your honour,” she teased.

He went into the bathroom and she was on her back when he returned. He slid into bed quietly. She picked her head up, gasping.

“Sorry, Wendy, it's me. Go to sleep.”

She wiggled closer, mumbling a protest, and threw an arm over his neck. “I was waiting for you,” she complained. “You took a long time.”

He laughed at her as he cuddled her against his front. Wendy nuzzled his neck, inhaled deeply, kissed him there. She nipped him.

“You did! I'm drunk and horny and you took years.”

He smoothed her hair and she tipped up for a kiss. She tasted intoxicating. His hand stroked dark curls and soft flesh. She preened into his arms deeper, her breasts rubbing along his chest. Soft, wet kisses marked her approval as he eased his fingers along her folds. He followed her swaying and felt adequate for the first time that day. He would settle for wanting. It told him she felt something more than predictable affection when they were together.

Wendy groped for the band of his boxers and he stopped her. Rolling her to her back, Eric slipped his finger inside and cupped the back of her neck. He pulled his mouth away and looked down at her reddened lips. Her eyes were glazed, but she wasn't too drunk to know what she was doing. He kissed down her neck. He licked the outer curve of her breast, pumping his finger in her pussy.

She had something to tell him, but she couldn't concentrate well enough to remember it. He grazed her clit and she moaned, feeling the vibration darting around inside her like a ricochet. Her head came up in time to see his mouth close over her nipple.

“Eric!”

He left her, the only contact brief as he let go of her nipple and turned away. Wendy squirmed down into the covers, gaping at him until she realized he was going for a condom. She waited, swirling her fingers on her breasts, playing with herself on quick little strokes to her clit. Eric rolled back, found her with two fingers in, and exhaled harshly.

“Christ,” he breathed. “You're everything all at once, coming right for me, aren't you? Here, get out, I need that more than you do.”

He pulled her fingers free, sucked them and got between her legs. Wendy made room and smiled up at him as he grimaced in frustrated arousal. She felt his head dip in to test she was ready for something bigger. His eye burned down at her, the eyepatch still on. She ran her hands in his hair, rolling the elastic up toward his crown.

“No eyepatch. I want your whole face,” she grumbled. “Your whole tongue, your whole cock, your whole body.”

Eric braced for the pressure and thrust slowly, breathing out as the urge to come made him want to hurry through. She cupped his chin, one hand still smelling like her arousal. He leaned down to her, letting her tongue smooth away stupid, devoted words she wasn't ready to hear from him. Sweat pooled in his back and wicked into the shorts he'd pushed down. His hands pulled on her, jolting her up as she arched. He fell immediately into heavy thrusts, fast going in and lingering as much as he could bear as he dragged out of her smothering heat.

“Are you going to come for me,” he gasped. She nodded, eyes slitted through mussed brown hair. “Come on, Wendy, come for me.”

“Eric . . . “

One whisper and he was her captive. Wendy flopped her arms back over her head, but her legs gripped him securely. One had kicked up to curl around him, and the other bent at his side. He leaned on his elbows, driving up harder, making her curl futher into herself. She was sweating. He kissed her red cheek, brushed her hair away. She bit her lip and tears rolled down her temples.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck . . . . mmm, oh,” Wendy whimpered. She was so far gone, engulfed in his energy. She slid her hands down the mattress, found his fingers and held on. Her neck curled down, muscles bunching as she throbbed and throbbed.

Eric shoved in and tensed, holding pressure as her shoulders and hips jerked with her spine. Her eyes clamped shut but she felt him looking at her. His fingers massaged her clawed hands until they opened limply. Then he thrust again, bringing his weight down on her to steady them. Her hands crept behind his back, holding him and comforting as he jerked and grunted with mute shouts.

She had to tip her head to one side when he dropped into a close sprawl. Wendy closed her eyes and relaxed. She knew he would stay awake to take care of the condom. He never let anything slide if it was important. She fell asleep with his sweat on her tongue, defenseless.

He caught his breath slowly, wondering if he was out of shape or just thrown. Eric nudged Wendy's arms down from his back, and pulled out. He knelt above her and pushed her legs closed. She didn't stir. Her skin glistened like some kind of magical female creature that ensnared men and ate them. He was almost charmed by the idea. He didn't know if he could win her, but he couldn't lose her.

She doesn't even need magic, he thought with chagrin. I should be running for my life.

Ten minutes in the bathroom lecturing himself on presuming too much didn't work, but his body calmed the instant he spooned behind Wendy. She had him now, and he was too tired to worry about what she was going to do with him.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy didn't get her magic ride home. He didn't get his partner back. In another world, another Middleman gained a Dubbie.

Duke of New York Toy Company  
Eight months and 26 days later

Hope made everything less of a strain, he thought happily, even without Dubbie.

The Middleman found it easier to smile politely at Ivan Avi and his employer, the unlucky owner of the toy factory, knowing he had an apprentice truly willing to continue a search for Wendy. He even allowed the nervous inventor to scramble back to his own desk to tinker nervously.

Once he'd escaped the hellish world of his birth, Mr. Avi wasn't remotely a flight risk. Upon his release from house arrest, he immediately started visiting farmer's markets, organic clothing stores and hybrid car dealerships. He registered as a voter with glee that was moving. The volunteer fire department had rejected Mr. Avi in favour of a brawnier applicant, but he was lifting weights for next year. He had found a home that suited his principles.

Initially, the comfort and joy of the former suspected super villan was a bitter pill. The Middleman had held himself back from any persecution because he knew the facts supported an accident. Wendy had intervened and been transported, but not by any design. The bitterness had bubbled under every meeting, until one day it simply didn't have control. The Middleman would continue to monitor Mr. Avi, but his work was good and his morals impeccable. There was no risk of recidivism.

I don't want to be a hateful man, he thought. Especially not because of Wendy.

As part of his penance, the exiled man had replicated his quantum singularity machine. It was sitting on a shelf in headquarters – useless. It needed to be activated simultaneously with an identical device in the other world, which required communication to that world. He had no way to complete the necessary loop for the interdimensional swap. Neither Ivan could explain entirely how it worked. They had complementary skill sets that allowed them to harness the abstract.

It was a very long shot that a single transportation had worked. Another attempt would face worse odds. It was just an estimation, he told himself. It was a neat mathematical answer when only the reality had a true result. In the meantime, he would make sure amends were being made to the kindly, slightly depressive toy maker.

“Thank you for your time,” The Middleman said brightly. “I just wanted to check in. The prisoner work program is interested in improving our strategies in any way we can. Tell me, has Mr. Avi been helpful to you?”

Walt Dinsey smiled painfully. “Ivan has been a godsend. He ran things during the trial, so I could keep bringing in some money until I cleared my name. Not like my ingrate kids! I give them one thing to do – On the computer, like they like! I asked them to design a new shipping label!”

The Middleman frowned. He recalled the man claiming an unfair amount of poor luck, but the garbled set of details didn't make sense.

“That sounds stressful, Mr. Dinsey. Why don't you start from the beginning and get it off your chest,” he invited. “You say you were clearing your name?”

Shifting around, the older man visibly pushed back self pity and squared his shoulders. “I bought my kids a new computer, and the guy at the store told me a lot of businesses are doing their own graphics. He said high school kids can do it nowadays. It was my weekend with the kids, so once we set up the computer I asked them to make a colourful shipping label – a cartoon animal, the company name and address, you know?”

His coffee cup shook as he brought it to his mouth, taking a huge gulp that was probably too hot from the way his eyes bulged.

“So I look at the thing, and it looks good! They put a cartoon mouse on it, and my name – really nice and professional. Only took them half an hour and I'm thinking, they're nice kids, smart, trying to help their old dad out. Maybe they're old enough now to understand what it takes to buy their sneakers and Blue Rags. So I take it to a printer and get a thousand. I ship the first order and there are lawyers at my door; copyright infringement because they spelled my last name wrong. Spelled it like another company with a guy named Walt, who uses a mouse as a trademark. Big company, lots of money, more lawyers than Europe. I apologized, but they said they had to sue.”

Blinking and dazed at the runaway conversation, The Middleman waved Harold over. He couldn't begin to unravel how much the universe hated a seemingly kind factory owner.

“Please show Mr. Dinsey that progression hugging technique you've been certified to practice. Remember to work the pressure points in the centre of the back,” he said firmly, staring down the apprentice's horrified reaction.

“Sure . . . Boss. Will do.”

Harold proceeded to hug a lax Mr. Dinsey, his elbows pointed stiffly out. The sobbing man mumbled. “This isn't very comfortable. Are you sure you're supposed to be all the way out there?”

“Very sure, Mr. Dinsey, now, please focus silently with me on a healing ball of light.”

While they were communing, The Middleman approached Mr. Avi with light steps. He put out his hand and smiled as the scrawny inventor warily put down his work.

“Mr. Avi, I haven't always been fair, and I apologize. I believe you didn't mean any harm to my world or my partner. I realize you needed rescue as much as she does,” he said confidently. “Had I known your plight I would have helped you, and Wendy would have stood by me to do so. If she'd been uprooted during the attempt, her loss would be no less an accident than how it transpired. I hope you might forget my moods toward you.”

Pale cheeks rose in a grin. “Thank you. I am sorry, and I meditate every night to find another poor soul without a pineal gland. Unfortunately, it's a rare injury and a rarer birth defect. I think the bond only works between twin souls.”

He felt that close to Wendy, felt it to the fiber of his being, but The Middleman knew there was more to it than that. If longing could bring her back, it would have been done ten times over. He nodded to Ivan, and turned to extricate his apprentice.

Over his head  
Eight months and 26 days later

Less than a year ago, he hadn't known there was a single Wendy Watson in the world, let alone anticipated one as his helpmate and the other a shadow dictator ruling the people he was supposed to protect. Less than half a year ago, he would have assumed the shadow dictator Dubbie would be more trouble. He was getting more open-minded and collaborative, because he was duly aware of how wrong he had been.

She tells me often enough, he mused, feeling silly affection for the small woman bent over a plasma rifle.

Eric couldn't touch her and make her at peace, and it bothered him. He knew he was being stupid to even try, but he'd thought they were mutually . . . attached. He could see it only rarely, but he felt it all the time. The sex was great. The meals they ate together were as horrible as any Ida had cooked, but Wendy found ways to make them palatable. Her addition of common spices and simple conversation built bonding rituals out of daily bread.

He had given her the closest approximation of her own life that his world could support. She had her paintings and the time to follow any other artistry that resonated with her. He gave her as much responsibility as his conscience would surrender. They were a couple, and she knew that even if it wasn't official, he'd make it official if she really needed a ring on her finger. He wasn't going to make more of it than there was; she had to know. She was the only human being in his life. He barely drank anymore. He told her a knock-knock joke from Rick after getting back from the black market. He lowered himself to telling a second hand knock-knock joke.

She has to know, he thought angrily. I shared myself with her. The only thing I won't do for her is hand over control of the world. No offense to Cupcake, but we've seen how that turns out. He blinked, slowly.

“It bothers you,” he said aloud.

“Hmm?”

“The other Wendy Watson bothers you. I get that, but you can think past it. She isn't you, doesn't do what you would, or live compassionately and bravely like you do. She's weak in the face of the crappy things the world does.”

Her expression was oddly blank for a moment, then screwed up in disgust. “You're empathizing with me?”

She was slapping the gun together, not as carefully as it should be done. Eric stood up as she rose to a height that he'd stopped thinking of as lower than his own. Her full height was plenty. She was compact. He was faster, struck harder, moved without remorse to strike before stricken. Wendy took a few seconds to decide she was going to use force. He had to learn how to coil his bulk before lashing out, but she was saved that effort. Her elastic muscles were hidden in a slight frame, equally effective to his best shot. He anticipated a hit, because she was crossing the room toward him.

“Don't do that,” she gasped, her face tilted down to the floor. “You're – don't.”

He let her hide somewhere in the building, warning Ida to leave her alone, feeling sorry for trying and failing to make her happy. She snuck past him to get in bed. He joined her only when he was certain she was asleep.

Out of her depth  
Nine months later

Nine months, three quarters of a year, longer than she'd been with her Middleman, Wendy counted sourly. She'd gone on more missions in this world than her own. She'd been wholely embraced into Eric's life in a way her old boss wouldn't have been able to allow. He had morals and principles. He had scruples, notably about sex. Her eyes found him on the monitors, oddly energetic as he worked. He hadn't even made his coffee Irish. He smiled up at the cameras a few times, like he felt her.

She'd been officially lost long enough to create a new life, and she was afraid she had. For every moment of visceral uprising against her surroundings, she lived another moment of acceptance. The pull of her first Middleman was matched by the increasing gravity of her new boss.

She'd been paranoid about his one-eyed snake and ended up in the clutches of a one-eyed bastard. Wendy glanced at the screen and he was there, smirking up with a wink. He had her and she was no closer to home.

The breakthrough  
Nine months later

Harold had been a history major, and his efforts with the archive surpassed The Middleman's own. At the beginning of each research session, he wrote down all the ideas they had since the previous session. He sensibly refrained from commenting on most of it, but he held up a hand as his boss recounted the brief conversation with Ivan Avi.

“He said 'twin souls' exactly?”

Usually, Harold politely asked for clarification, then noted any changes. The Middleman paused to let him neatly scrub away the pencil and revise. When nothing but silence followed, he looked up. His apprentice was flushed, his eyes fixed on the shelves. The quantum singularity machine was elsewhere in the room. Harold was staring at the books on mental abilities.

“Does that mean something useful, Harold,” he asked. “I suppose I could have my pineal gland removed, but that would still leave it to chance my alternate self had the same procedure.”

Squinting, the younger man shook his head. “No, that's not it. It's . . . I know Roxy is working on magic, and Ivan built the machine, but I think there's another part to it. Ivan said he and his brother, Ivan, called themselves twins, but they weren't. They felt like they had each been born to the wrong world, right?”

Ida buzzed through with a stack of books taller than herself, holding them aloft with one hand. They nearly brushed the ceiling to rain down on the humans hunched at the table.

“There's an old robot saying; if wires got crossed, blame the wires,” she said. “Sounds like there are wires to be crossed between the two worlds.”

Harold's pencil rolled, and he reached for it absently. His eyes scanned the notes, looking for the words to make his idea concrete. “Boss, I think we need a psychic. We've been looking for your Wendy, but there should be another Wendy there. So we have two signs instead of one. We look for her alternate twin with a psychic.”

The Middleman was just beginning to nod when Ida slapped all her books down on the nearest flat surface. She leaned over the table and eyed both of them with disdain. Her earrings sent glare across his notes and Harold rubbed his eyes.

“You don't need a psychic, Junior. You need a mechanically savvy, magically charmed, electro-psychic. And you're out of luck, 'cause I'm not getting fried for Miss Priss!”

He frowned at Ida, handsome good looks freezing into contemplation. He could make it an order. There were other options to try and Ida deserved respect. Her refusal was based in emotion, and if he needed to he could deny her that privilege.

“Good work, Harold,” he murmured softly. “Good work.”

Irked, the robot being ignored picked up her books and stomped away, making dire predictions of failure. Two human backs bent to ever more research with a new angle. The Middleman had felt burgeoning progress before and been fooled when it collapsed under impossibility. It felt the same in the early stages. He had seen more than enough evidence of the soul, and Wendy's was uniquely beautiful or he wouldn't love her.

He would find her soul, then find her body and bring it back to where he could hold her. There was no question.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy didn't get her magic ride home. He didn't get his partner back. In another world, another Middleman gained a Dubbie.

Part Nineteen  
In her Depths  
Nine months later

God damn him to a dry town, he could feel her breathing from the inside.

Eric flicked his head to one side, holding himself over Dubbie's sweaty body. It was their anniversary. She had been dropped into his world nine months earlier, and he could believe she was straight from heaven if she said so. He didn't buy her anything, but they had pizza instead of slop for dinner. He shaved before bed and had Cupcake for a lengthy midnight snack, minus her usual mild bitching about beard burn.

Don't be a greedy asshole, he told himself. Bend her into a pretzel another night. This is perfect, she's perfect. Don't fuck up.

She was pefectly wet and tight, but he knew there was deeper and he wanted it. His balls weren't aching that much, and she could come a few more times. He braced as her fingers reached up and tugged his hair. Wendy froze in an arch. Not a big orgasm, not yet again. Hard though, if her grip was any clue.

She dropped down to the bed half a minute later. Her hands pushed into his belly, closing into fists that pushed his weight off. Eric looked at her face, but she seemed fine. Her eyes drifted open as her hips worked furiously. He couldn't wear her out. She was using some inexhaustible reserve that baffled him.

Eric thought it was taking more effort than before, her focus inward. He didn't quite trust her aim on top, but he needed a fresh rubber and she needed to be finished off.

“We've been going the better part of an hour, Cupcake,” he said softly, pulling back slowly.

She screwed up her face, her closed hands opening to clutch each other over the span of his lower back. Wendy was good at saying 'Don't leave me,' with her hands. On missions, she would reach for him and squeeze his fingers sharply; 'Don't go around that corner without me to protect you.' At HQ in the frantic planning of a new crisis her fingers would brush his wrist; 'Don't skip the explanations that let me make these choices with you.' In bed she just wanted contact. Eric didn't know what the message there was, but it felt like; 'Don't stop now, we're about to be in exactly the same space at the same moment.'

His grasp of physics was usually excellent, but he took it as fact when Wendy's body surged up like a riptide and took him. Eric held himself still, not meeting her in the slightest, but those strong hidden muscles scaled him like a rock face. He thought she managed to get even deeper than he'd been going with gravity in their favour.

He felt challenged by the smug heat in her gaze, especially when one of her skinny legs bent up to hook around his thigh. They both groaned as Wendy hefted her pussy up the divide he was attempting. Humiliation wasn't far off from it, not when she just never stopped being as good as the first and last and best time with every stroke.

“I'm worried about this condom, darlin',” Eric croaked. He dug fingers into her anchored leg, used it to guide her lower half back to the bed.

She grumbled lowly, shifting her weight as she kept working his cock. She froze, exhaled and shut her eyes in quick succession. Wendy's hips didn't stop for long.

“Sore,” he asked, grinning down as she opened her eyes. The effort was considerable and she faltered in the up and down, side to side rhythm. Typically, she would deny it, but he felt a miniscule flinch in her shoulder.

Wendy nodded, her dark eyes bright and a little disturbing. Eric held her hips and forced her to stop. “Don't wanna stop,” she gasped.

He lowered his front down to hers, and her arms enclosed him. Her wrists flexed with pleading nudges. Her lips shone so he bit them, feeling bits of flesh slide and escape. She was making him an imbecile. They knew how little Fatboy really cared for the people. Shoddy condoms would be the last thing to cause a ripple of remorse.

“No,” he told her. “Not because we're being stupid, Wendy. Close your eyes or I can't move.”

She hypnotized him with that big damn gaze full of layers of trust and fear. Eric had taken months to recognize what it was and that he was looking back at her the same way. He wasn't used to feeling like cannon fodder.

She flung an arm over her face and sighed as he crawled painfully out. The sloppy sounds of peeling latex preceded a textured rubbing of cloth on bristly hairs. Her heart was thumping too hard, even for their fucking. He had wanted this to be a good night, and it was for a while. He could feel her happiness draining away.

In the midst of the anxious reality of it all, Eric watched Wendy's restless movements on the bed. He would have called it shock if he'd seen just a little more uncoordination, a little less speaking. She looked empty there, and it scared him. For a monumentally stupid moment, he was sorry they couldn't let her body roll the odds for them.

He saw people with children struggling to feed them, but he'd also seen some of them cornered. They fought to the last, throwing everything into protecting their families. They shoved off the defeat and hopelessness and gave their most fierce effort. Sometimes they even survived.

The Middleman felt the number of souls on his watch, but they weren't real. He'd given up contact with his family before the end of the world. Tyler was gone soon after. His face was ruined and covered. Ida was – for all her loyalty – just a machine.

Wendy Watson's face was the only one he could truly see as a person. He wiped his hands and put on the fresh condom with a heavy sigh. He had to pull up from this obsession. He'd once had one other person to fight for, and lost him. Wendy couldn't be a repeat of that.

She got up on her knees and tried to push him on his back, but Eric caught her hands. He led her down to the bed and rubbed her hips soothingly. His knees shifted apart to brace himself and he pushed her legs open wider. Wendy whimpered and he kissed her hair.

“You're not letting go, darlin', and you're tired. Let me help. Don't think about anything. Move with me,” he whispered. “We know how to do this in our sleep now. Close your eyes and let it happen.”

His first thrust back in was not easy on her. She had to breathe and wiggle and arch until he fit. He stroked her as he waited, up and down her skinny sides, along her trembling belly, and slowly over her breasts. Her clit was too raw, blown out from earlier.

When she moved to him, her hips didn't have the bounce of playful taunting he was used to. Her head was hanging down in exhaustion, her arms shaking. If he drove forward too hard she would fold flat.

“Eric . . . “

Her hand groped back and he closed it in his fist. “I'm here, just come back to me. Nice and slow and steady.”

It wasn't in her to go back to the punishing, jerky pace. Wendy swayed to his cock, went away as he stayed put, and returned tighter each time. Her one free arm bent and her hair fanned along the bed. Her fingers twined in his were soft, but they drove his hand hard into her hip. Tension was building and they were getting each other there alongside the odd feeling.

He was starting to hear his name when she said it to him, like large scale deja vu. The world needed The Middleman. Eric, and Eric's pretty, snarky, brave lover had to give way. Wendy was not something he should ever have.

The uneasy feeling his his gut wouldn't go away, got worst as he came with a careless shove that made her break away from his hands to catch herself. She crawled off his cock and curled away from him, silent until her body went lax. He found tears on her face when he pulled her in to keep warm.

 

Breaking Point  
Nine months and 17 days later

Wendy wouldn't get up. He got up, went to the bathroom, came back and flipped the blankets off her. She shook her head and curled tiny, murmuring excuses he didn't believe. The Middleman pulled at her arm, and scolded her.

“I'm the reprehensible drunk around here, so if anyone gets to stay in bed, it's me. You're the one with the conscience.”

She rubbed at a knot of guilt forever out of reach in her stomach. He wasn't a bad man and he deserved more. His life was so terrifyingly vast and challenging that anyone standing beside him for a moment would be dizzy just from the realization. That was half hers now, and she limped beneath the limited responsibilities he gave her. They weren't committed to anything with each other, and she felt like a slug for being grateful about that.

“I can't,” she said. “I really can't.”

“You sick? I won't get Ida, promise, not unless I have to,” Eric told her gently, feeling her cheek. “Dubbie, a few hundred people just died from E. Coli not ten blocks from here. Let me help you.”

He moved her gently to her back and Wendy realized he was taking her compulsive stomach rubbing as a symptom. She stopped it and sighed, “My body is fine.”

She didn't know how she'd sounded when she said it, but he got out her sleeping t-shirt, brought it over and lowered it gently over her head. He even put on something before he lay down at a safe distance. She stared at the ceiling for a while, fighting tears, while he stared at her. The words came softly once she got used to his scrutiny.

“I don't think I'm ever going back,” Wendy told him. “Even if I could.”

Her cautious approach to relationships was nearly legendary at art school. Her body was given freely, treated well, plucked and stroked to pleasure, hugged warmly and grasped with passionate release. She had dated doorknobs like Ben, but those were the low points. The high point, Tyler, was pretty high. He was a dream boyfriend and carried all the tactful knowledge of the generation of men raised by liberated women. He gave her space and respected boundaries. He strove to increase intimacy only when she gave clear signals it was welcome.

Wendy knew Tyler was in love with her long before he said it, but he'd known not to say until she could say it to him. It was a whole new level of gentlemanly thoughtfulness. She'd been sure of him. If they'd made it to Christmas he'd have been dragged in front of her mom and Lacey to be vetted for permanent Wendy Watson's boyfriend status.

On the other end of the spectrum, she'd noticed The Middleman loved her long before her near-death forced the issue into words. It was good to know, and a great comfort when she thought she'd be dying. There were some issues about Lacey and her boss hooking up, but he gave in to her reservations and called it off. Sorting out how to have three most-important-persons in her life was a work in progress when she'd been at home.

It seemed like a very stupid problem in retrospect.

By default, she was free and clear to love Eric with everything she possessed. It was bound to link them, but Wendy didn't expect for the feelings to grow out of control. She had been mavelling at his generousity in unrequited shower orgasms one moment, and the next she was sunk.

Even if she found a way home, she'd be miserable without Eric. She'd waste her life regretting her choice. It wasn't a thought she allowed often, but her Middleman might have died. She could return just to find out she'd failed him, and spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder at a universe she'd never reach again.

Her Middleman would tell her just to do her best with every moment, and to do that, Wendy had to know where she stood.

“Did you hate me at first,” she whispered.

Eric lifted off the bed a little, looked at her, then answered in a cool, measured tone. “Hmm? No! I hated me, hated everything. I was pretty ashamed of the place, if you want the truth. Knew you were too good to be anywhere near this world.”

“I thought you maybe . . . knew about Wendy Watson, and what she did, before you met me,” she told him. “Maybe you didn't want to help me because you hated me for being her.”

Wendy cupped her hand over her watch, stroking it for comfort. He propped himself up on an arm and played with her hair.

“You looked brand new, Cupcake, and I didn't want to watch you get used up,” he said, tone tender.

He had been going easy on her and if they were really going to save this world, she had to take the weight of it on her own shoulders. Wendy snuggled to his chest and his hand felt nice rubbing her back. She was almost ready to get out of bed.

“You should stop protecting me so much, and then we can see if I can really do my share.”

There was a long, long pause that made her nervous. Maybe she didn't know what she was asking of herself, and he was just trying to keep her from her own failings. But if she was going to crack once he wasn't there to keep trouble back, Wendy needed to know before it got someone killed.

“Maybe in a while, you can do a few more things . . .”

“You're . . . really making it seem like there's a lot of terrible stuff I've been missing,” she complained half-jokingly.

“It's a bad world.” And he had tried to hide the worst. They were past the time when that was a help to her.

“There's a version of me running this world,” Wendy noted. There was a disgrace to the Watson name with her boot on the necks of every man, woman and child – doing it in Peter Watson's memory, no less. It had to be stopped and it seemed fitting for another Wendy Watson to be the one who took on Wendy Watson.

Eric's arms wrapped around her and he rolled to his back with her on top. He put his hands chastely on her hips and sighed against her forehead.

“Never could argue with a cute college girl,” he drawled. “You're smart. We'll get you started on it, slowly. It's a lot to take in and it's hard to hear.”

Wendy could feel his reluctance and she held him hard for a while before wiggling away. She was sorted out enough to face the day, and time was wasting without her.

 

In a foxhole world  
Nine months and 17 days later

He had thought about using Wendy Watson against her other self. Tyler was his little brother, and that required some thoughts filled with nothing but hate and testosterone.

Obviously, death didn't bother the CEO of Fatboy, but the resemblance had to feel like something to her. It would resonate. He could have wound up the new apprentice with talk of valour and duty, assessed her skills and trained her to go undercover. Even as a prisoner, she would have to bump into her doppleganger from time to time. Who could really resist an idea like an identical twin when you'd been born alone?

Every small thing he learned about Dubbie was filed away. Some of it was just nonsense of no strategic value. But she had a mother, father missing and presumed dead. That was matched by the Watson family's miliatry records from before the war. A mother was a powerful weakness, and a widowed mother even moreso. There were no siblings, and he didn't think Dubbie's many friends would be close to her dictator self, but it was a start.

You pushed softly at first, gentleness not born of tender feelings but desire to live to fight another day. Not unlike sleeping with Dubbie, except he'd never planned that.

Karma was unsatisfying to him, but Eric liked the true ideal of justice, old-world biblical justice. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, and world for a world. If Wendy Watson had a lover, he'd have shot the bastard while she watched. He would have put Dubbie outside the door, but made the same horror and loss rip through a woman who looked the same down to the balance of her hips as she processed surprise.

He was confident no one would be able to ascertain real identities if he could manage a switch. Dubbie could be the shadow queen of his world, manipulating all the evils of Fatboy. He would insist on controlling her, of course. It was sexy giving her orders, and more importantly it kept him in charge. He knew when chain of command mattered, and placing her on a throne was emblematic of the importance of discipline.

Eric honestly wanted Wendy to have everything, including vengeance, but he would not gamble on her resistance to power. One of her fell, and all others might follow. She had a theory about his being the 'evil mirror universe.' He could see how she'd get that, but the comfort it provided her was dangerous. There was no such thing as a complete opposite. Traits spun to the good or ill, but they weren't set out like a roadmap on a soul.

Wendy – the Wendy he called Dubbie, who played little spoon to his possessive hold at night – was as capable of atrocities as any other person. He loved her enough to respect her nature.

He sometimes felt terribly ashamed of himself for ever considering her as a weapon. He sometimes felt the soldier's resignation that brutality was part of his thought process. Battle fatigue was inevitable. An end of fighting – peace – was his quioxtic dream. Perhaps someone, somewhere with the view of a god had sent Dubbie to fix his world.

When he let himself go very quiet, Eric saw the look in his murdered apprentice's eyes. That spreading death had infected everyone.

In the beginning, he had written Wendy off as useless, too soft. Then he had been chasing a quick job, with the added bonus of a tiny ray of self-esteem in success. When she fought him, he figured she might last a few months and backup would be a good break. Her nervous scampering around made it clear he'd have to fuck her just once. The initial rushed hand job convinced Eric he needed her forever.

It was becoming obvious he had to do something to break Fatboy's hold, because Wendy had told him she wasn't leaving him. Wendy Watsons were his alpha and omega.


End file.
